


Inferno

by SuperiorDimwit



Series: The End of the Beginning [2]
Category: Ao no Exorcist | Blue Exorcist
Genre: Anime/Manga Fusion, Bigotry & Prejudice, Blood and Violence, Conspiracy, Convergent mythology, F/F, F/M, Friendship, Gen, History, M/M, Mephisto is a magnificent bastard, Other, Plot plot plot and some more plot, Pseudoscience!, Smut, Trans Character, UST, Worldbuilding, character backstory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-03-05 00:36:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 89
Words: 311,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3098465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuperiorDimwit/pseuds/SuperiorDimwit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <strong>Some matches are made in heaven, some in hell: and some, quite rare and quite peculiar, are made on earth.</strong>
</p><p>Knowing the King of Time adds many complications to Shiro's life; on the other hand, the talented young exorcist shows a remarkable knack for complicating the life of Prince Samael as well. Side by side, they stand before an uncertain future as... as what, really? Friends? Partners in crime? Colleagues, enemies, soulmates...? Or players in a game more vast and complex than either of them could have guessed?</p><p>(I own nothing, just borrowing from Katou Kazue.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Recaps

"...why do _I_ have to summarize? _You're_ the one who likes playing with words."

"Yes, why indeed? Dimwit thought that would be appropriate, since this is your story; despite there being far more capable individuals in the cast."

"Why summarize at all? Do you really think anybody would be dumb enough to read this without reading the first arc first?"

"You would be surprised at the things humans have done throughout history. Your own blunders in the past arc can't even compare."

"...you're trying to taunt me into summarizing just to contradict that statement. You forget I got to know you pretty well in the previous arc."

"And if you would elaborate on that...?"

"Come on! Having the characters do the introductions is just lame! You do it if you want it so badly!"

"Haah, how mediocre the human mind, that does not recognise the world for the stage it is: you're the lead role, Shiro. The protagonist whose deeds will be written in the stars for generations to read with awe and inspiration. In every age and place has mankind sought ways to divine the future, not realising that the future changes its capricious path with every action taken; such was the case, too, when a daring young man took the first steps onto the path of afuture known to you as the beginning, and to him as the end. It was in the early days of August, when fancy brought it to his mind that he should play a prank on the new students, by preparing the vents of their dorm with an odorous food called chou doufu. As fate would have it, this became-"

"Jesus Christ, this is an introduction chapter, not another fic! Wards got sabotaged around the school and I was a little too curious for my own good, signed a contract for that weirdo over there, one thing led to another: I covered his ass when things heated up, and in the last chapter I woke up in his bed feeling like I'd been run over by the Shinkansen."

"You forgot to mention how good you are with Freudian slips and unintentional innuendos."

"I don't need to remind anybody of that."

"Indeed: and now we have a summary~"

"...ah, crap."


	2. Aftermath

It wasn't easy to transit from one dimension to another. To re-enter the world where he had been born, a world that seemed to push him away like a mother lion rejecting a cub that smells different.

It wasn't easy to pretend he didn't see the look of concern in Midori's eyes, didn't hear the unspoken question on her lips. He was sure he smelt different to her, too.

It wasn't easy to watch Shizuku rock Ryuuji gently back and forth in his arms when word reached them that Agari had been among the casualties. To sit amidst the heart-twisting sobs and try to force an empty word of comfort over his lips, while Agari's dying moments still were fresh in his mind's eye.

It wasn't easy to admit that he would never feel entirely human around humans again.


	3. Don't know you

Since that day there was a feeling of wrongness about everything. There was something wrong in people's eyes, something wrong in how the air tasted, something... _wrong_. Shiro mourned the casualties of the barrier failure, like everyone else, but for him there were harsh, red streaks of anger mixed in with the grief. The six dead hadn't been "innocent victims" nor had they been "valiantly fighting to protect the school and their school mates". But Shiro was the only one who knew that.

He hated the lies, hated how they clung to his skin like filth he couldn't wash off. He felt like tearing the truth right out of his chest and show the assembled students from his own memories what the six casualties had _really_ been like, how they _really_ had died… because pretending like this… pretending that their deaths were tragic accidents…

Shiro attended the ceremony in the great assembly hall of the Academy and felt that soon, very soon, lightning must strike through the roof and vaporize him. Teachers took turns giving speeches, and each word grated on his nerves like knives on porcelain. Paragon students, responsible adolescents, respected by their classmates, bright futures and promising careers – _bull, shit_.

The susurrus hymn of weeping students floated through his consciousness like noxious mist and made him chew the butt of his cigarette to mush. Plenty of tears for paragon assassins and promising murderers – wonder how many would be dead if they weren't? How many would have survived if Mephisto hadn't raised the barriers and driven the invading demons out?

Mephisto… Samael… tch, what did names matter, anyway? He'd been the same guy all along. He had done good things… regardless what his true intentions were.

And Shiro had made his choice. A good choice or a bad one…? He didn't know. He did absolutely not know, and every time he tried to sort it out his thoughts tangled until his head was as knotted up as his chest. On one hand: for over a century, Samael had been nothing but an asset to the Order. He had saved the school, helped expand the Order's influence... on the other hand:

" _He's Satan's son._ " Shiro let the thought sink into his consciousness and felt the sharp edges scratch and prod his doubts. " _Why would such a big fish join True Cross?_ " There was a hidden agenda; there had to be. There was no way Satan's son could harbour any honest desire to help huma- " _Oh, listen to yourself, you sanctimonious ass!_ " Shiro had very few fundamental beliefs he lived by, but those he had he held onto firmly. One such belief was that you create your own path in life. " _That you have a crap dad doesn't mean you're crap, too_ ", he reminded himself. Judge a tree by the fruit it bears, and so on. Samael might be Satan's son, but that didn't mean he took after his father.

At least, Shiro hoped he didn't.

* * *

Fresh air, at last! Bright sunshine greeted the sobbing crowd that milled out of the hall, caring only to warm the singing birds and coax the next round of flowers out of their buds, now that the cherries blossomed mostly on the ground. Shiro had to take care not to look too relieved as he diverted from the throng, picking his way towards a small staircase and a bridge that-

"Hey, where ye goin'? Sayin' farewell is this way, ye know."

Circumstances softened Shizuku's tone, yet it cut through Shiro like a banshee screech. Right. Saying farewell and paying respects before the bodies were taken to the crematory… He halted his steps and turned around, and everything felt _wrong_.

"Sorry man, I just can't", he said, running a hand through his hair out of habit. "I know we were in the same class and all, but… I just can't."

There are some things you just don't do. There are some things that are fundamentally wrong to do, and paying respects to somebody you had murdered - _it was self defence_ \- was anything but respectful of the dead. Shiro had no right to go there. He had no right mourn Agari, or any of the others, and he'd had it up to what he could take of putting up a mask. But Shizuku didn't know that.

"Shiro-san. I know you two didn't get along, but fe' Chrissake, she's _dead_ ", he said sharply. "And ye're putting ye' grudges on hold te go an' pay her ye' final respects or I'll fuckin' kick ye there, ya hear me?"

"Agari-chan wouldn't have wanted me to pay her respects", he explained as calmyl as he could. A feeling of tightness had grasped his chest that was cold and hot all at once, as if his very being was telling him that he should not go to see the dead.

"Midori-chan is going." Shizuku's voice was hard and unforgiving like a block of granite as it drove the final nail into the coffin. "And if _she_ can let bygones be bygones ya don't have any fuckin' right in the world te bail."

This situation shouldn't exist. Cornered in a dead end like this, caught between the secret behind his back and Shizuku's unwavering sense of right and wrong in front of him, Shiro saw no way for time to keep ticking. If anything, it should rewind and restart on another track. One that didn't lead here.

Should he attend, should he bail, should he…? What the hell should he do…?

" _I can't go there – what the hell would that make me? A murderer with a conscience? Or just a sick fuck attending his victims' funeral?_ " He didn't want to go there. He couldn't. " _I..._ " His lips parted slightly, and he felt himself sink into that cold, detached state that had been his last farewell to Agari. "Shizu-san… I can't."

*whack*

Shizuku wasn't a seasoned fighter and didn't know where to place a punch to deal maximum damage; but the feeling he put behind it compensated for all that.

"I don't know what the hell's wrong with you", Shizuku grated, his clenched fist trembling from pain and anger. "But _this_ …? Are ye even human?"

He turned sharply and stalked away, following the stream of students headed to the courtyard where the caskets were held for farewells before being taken to the crematory.

Shiro watched him go. The tang of blood in his mouth brought back nauseating memories of blood spilled and... He didn't want to think about it. Grasping the first practical distraction he could think of, Shiro ran his tongue over his teeth to check that they were all there. They felt alright. Nothing seemed loose. At least Shizuku hadn't gone for the glasses.

"…I'm sorry", he murmured to the warm spring breeze.

* * *

He walked that whole day, and burnt almost a whole packet of cigarettes in the process. Oh, he was well aware that he was hiding: still, he couldn't bring himself to go back to the Academy campus. It's funny, how it's not the dead that haunt you, but the living: and how the shadow of the past is so much easier to bear than the shadow falling on you from the future.

He went to the night market while it was still just late afternoon. The air was high, swallows wheeled back and forth with exultant cries, and the season's warmth shone from bright eyes and colourful clothes. The vendors were busy, the smell of food tantalising, and everything was buzzing with spring.

Bad move, he realised. All that merriment, all that optimistic laughter… it's only in the contrast with bright light that you notice how dark the shadows are. He felt like one in those bustling streets.

" _What's the matter?_ " he questioned himself silently. The water carried animated voices over its comfortable distance to where he stood, slouching with his lower arms on the railing of the bridge across the pond. Ducks swam over to the ashes falling off his cigarette into the water – probably thought it was breadcrumbs. Stupid animals. " _Who's stupid, really? I should just go back there and say I didn't feel well at the ceremony, or some such crap._ "

Oh, but it would still be there: the shadow, the unspoken pressure, as if the dead still walked the dorm corridors. It didn't matter what excuse he made up, it was still there: the mask of mourning innocence, waiting to suffocate him.

And something else. He hadn't noticed it before, busy as he was with everything going on outside his head, but now that he had time to poke around there was something there, too. Something within: mere coals of the fire, but still glowing and hot. Still there, days after Agari and the other five had died, was that faint burning…

" _Is that what they call shock?_ " he pondered, tapping ashes off in the water. His eyes lingered on the red butt of the cigarette. Yes; something like that, nested inside his chest… " _Maybe I should see someone about this…_ "

And say what, exactly? That he'd killed six of the school's students? Shiro huffed at his own naïveté and sent a few miserable flakes of cigarette paper sailing down to the water. To the ever-expectant ducks. Greedy idiot birds.

He had killed people. It had happened in the heat of battle, yes, and he didn't want to do something like that ever again, _ever_. Still... he knew that burning feeling inside. He shouldn't be feeling it now. And not this faint. That bitter, snarling anger had never been faint. And he didn't feel angry: he felt… like the clean snap of the slide clicking in place over a bullet fed into the barrel. Cocked and loaded and ready to go off if those glowing coals suddenly-

The ducks quarrelled noisily over the lost cigarette that had fallen down to them. He could hear them, but the demon had already taken his vision and was cutting him off from his ears as well; his mother's soulless, empty laughter trickled up through the darkness, and the world became his family's dinner table-

" _No you don't._ " He seized his mother's memory by the throat, glared through her eyes and into the demon's. " _Not with me, and not today, you little shit._ "

Yes, he felt the darkness – felt it flare like a match lit over fire. Felt it intimately, like morning mist coating skin and crawling into his lungs; felt it around and inside, part of him as he was part of it. His darkness, his to command.

His mother melted from his eyes and slipped his fingers, and he was on the bridge again. The ducks had fled the ruckus, but he could still smell them. His ears twitched as the sounds of people reached them over the water with jigsaw conversations about clothes, birthdays, and the boy next door being noisy on weekends. Sounds much louder than they should have been.

" _I'm… a demon…?_ " He stared at his claws: a tar-black, dimly glimmering variety – they looked just like the wooden handrail, which was reduced to smoking coal under his other hand. "Ngh-!" His vision was swallowed into darkness again: fierce, indignant darkness that was in no way amused by this turn of events.

He had no idea how he knew that, but it made him laugh all the same.

" _I'll amuse you alright_ ", he challenged with a sneer, feeling a rush of wolfish excitement that seemed… inappropriate.

Inappropriate, because he enjoyed it. The fight was even, and he was worn down to his bones, but the feeling of battling that demon soul to soul brought something to his lips that could have been called a smile if it hadn't had fangs. It was… relieving, in a way; to have a problem he could deal with hands-on, rather than the thorny dead end he'd faced with-

Shizuku?

Shiro veered very close to losing control over himself, but kept a firm grasp on his darkness and on the hip flask he'd just uncorked.

"Hi. Just gimme a minute", he told the shell-shocked pilgrim on the bridge, and put the flask to his lips. Bracing himself, he gulped liquid fire until he fell down on all fours and vomited: vomited a thick, oily cloud of miasma that disappeared into the shadows of the trees.

" _Oh man, I feel crap…_ " Like riding Go To Hell backwards with a fever and a panicked horse kicking next to you in the cart.

"Holy Buddha, Shiro-san – ye okay?" Shizuku rushed over from the bridge and helped him to his feet.

"Fine, just fine…" He dusted himself off as best he could, but stopped. "Okay, that must sound completely ridiculous, but honestly… I think I'm fine."

"Ye think?" The look on Shizuku's face spoke clearly what he thought of that. "I just heard a possessed man say 'just gimme a minute' and exorcise 'imself like it's nothin'. How's that even possible?"

"Sen-chan told me how she controls her goblin", he replied, hanging on to the topic rather than ask why Shizuku had gone looking for him. "If you acknowledge the darkness you have in your heart, and learn to be the master of it, then you can master any demon that tries to feed off it. That's it, really."

"And did ye know one fifth o' the Futotsuki children that go through that rite o' passage end up dead?" the pilgrim said dryly, eyeing him up and down with a concerned look. "That's dangerous stuff, man. It's meant for bonding _once_ , with _one_ demon, an' not one that possesses _you_. Ye should wear the pendant instead."

Oh, right: that…

"Why would they do something like that to their kids?" It was a legitimate question, in Shiro's defence.

"Traditions an' values look different everywhere ya go - that crap about devil worshippers sacrificing children 's what outsiders made of it." Shizuku crossed his arms and rerouted the conversation in quipped tones: "An' the pendant?"

"I wear it – I just take it off to bathe, and I forgot it back in the dorm room." Lie. The pendant lay on the pedestal of one of the lanterns in the Ceremonial Hall, where he always left it when he was sparring with Samael. He hadn't gone back there since. Hadn't gone to see Samael, either…

"…ye know, lying is a really bad habit o' yours", Shizuku said, brown eyes nailing him in place where he stood. "An' yer gonna drop it right now, 'cause we need te talk. I didn't come t'apologise. There's a saying that goes 'neva' let the sun set on an argument', an' I don't intend fer that te happen." Shizuku shoved his hands into his pockets and shifted his weight from one foot to the other: he didn't like having to deal with this, but was determined to do so anyway. "I figure ye got yer issues. Bad ones", he added, throwing a glance at a severely singed park bench. "But if I knew what's eatin' ye, maybe we could sort this out. So what's wrong? An' don't tell me 'nothing'. That look in yer eyes earlier teday? It fuckin' scared me." Oh, if he only knew… "Carryin' that kind o' stuff inside ain't good. I'll help ya, but ye gotta take the first step an' say what's wrong."

There were moments when Shiro expected Shizuku to float up into Enlightenment and disappear from the physical world. Such a great guy: such an admirable, honest, kind guy. Now would be a perfect time for him to reach Enlightenment.

Shiro had expected Shizuku to notice something was off; he'd just hoped he wouldn't put him up against the wall about it. In retrospect, that was a plain stupid hope. Shizuku was as blunt as Shiro was when it came to addressing issues – the difference was that he did it out of genuine concern, not for code of honour or duty.

"You're a great guy, Shizu-san", he said, noticing a slight throat burn developing, "but you can't be everywhere. The one who needs support right now is Ryuuji-san, and I-"

"Don't", Shizuku bit off in steely tones, "switch subject. An' don't make me hit ye 'gain, 'cause that really fuckin' hurt, and I can't hit as hard as I want to with my left." The spark of humour fluttered awkwardly in the tense atmosphere, and went out. "Ryuuji-san's with Midori-chan and Sen-chan. I'm here fe' _you_."

Back in the dead end, then. He could make up a lie, maybe bring up his parents and twist it to fit circumstances, somehow…

" _As if he wouldn't see through that! You're overdue anyway_ ", a calculating part of his mind murmured. Lies are a delicate thing: like crops, they need to be planted at the right time to grow successfully. Plant them now and Shizuku's cold glare would wither them like a blizzard. " _Any lie at this point would have to be elaborate, and elaborate lies have many weak links. He's smart enough to find you out: and if he does, you'll have more to explain and less lies for doing it._ "

And if you can't weave a credible lie, and you can't tell the truth… then your sole resort is the most blatant lie you can come up with.

"There's nothing wrong with me", he said flatly, bracing for the punch but not intending to block it.

Shizuku stared at him, taking a second to translate what he was being told. Shiro kept his face calm, horribly calm, though inwardly… inwardly, the coals still glowed in the darkness.

" _Just go: get pissed and walk away and never bring this up aga-_ "

"Stop fuckin' lyin' ta me!" Shizuku exploded. "There's been something _extremely_ damn wrong with you all along! Look at all the demons 'round ye! Like dogs smelling a bitch in heat!" His fists clenched tight, unclenched in sharp gestures, clenched again… but no strike fell. "An' I knew ye were stupid, but I didn't think in a million years ye'd be stupid enough ta go confide in a _demon_!" he snarled, eyes gone from deep brown to pitch black with anger. "But clearly, ye were – an' don't ye dare try ta deny ye did. Mephisto Pheles took _you_ ta the hearing at headquarters; 'e selected _you_ from Knight class, even when ye were the crappiest student there was; 'e went down with _you_ ta the target range for practice – Midori-chan tells me ye even _smell_ of 'im! Nothing wrong, ye say? There's something _fuckin'_ wrong with anyone who gets that kind o' attention from a demon! Ye're not leaving till ye've told me just what the hell yer carryin', ye understand?" He grabbed Shiro by the lapels of his uniform and almost yanked him off his feet. "I'm ye' friend, ye half-wit: I can tell somethin's not right! I don't care what it is as long as ye _say something,_ dammit! Just drop ye' stupid pride or independence or whatever the hell ye're clinging to an' _say_ something! _Anything_ is fine as long 's ye don't, fuckin', _lie_!" he growled, bearing down on Shiro like an agitated bear.

Friends. The people that have your back, come hell or high water. The people that laugh with you and cry with you. The people that are so determined to help you they unintentionally make everything worse.

Friends are the people that always try to do their best for you. And Shiro… would try to do his best for Shizuku: in a way Shizuku would never understand.

He sank deeper into that cold, detached state.

"Let go of me, Shizu-san. I'm fine."

The dark eyes flared – and died. It was the look of one throwing a rope to a drowning man who won't take hold of it.

"No ye're not", he hissed, forcing his fingers to release the uniform.

Shiro wrapped the coldness around himself like a cloak and took his time. Smoothed out the lapels. Tugged the uniform jacket back in place. Put a smoke between his teeth. Lit it.

" _I'm sorry._ "

Shizuku watched it all, and the raw anger in his eyes made the air curl tightly around him like explosive gas. Shiro turned to leave, and hated himself.

"G'nite."

" _Just walk away, coward_ ", he growled bitterly at himself. " _And let's see if you can ever look yourself in the mirror again._ "

"Keep telling ye'self ye're fine, ye liar!" Shizuku's snarl echoed through the still evening, through the trees; through the cold detachment. "That's the kind a' pent-up stuff that makes demons fancy ya – ye might wanna deal with that!"

* * *

He did deal with it: at the target practice range. That evening, he beat Natsuya's high score on unlimited mode.


	4. Don't know me

"'Cover the underground floors'." Shiro's muttering was inaudible under the sound of his booted feet pounding the floor. "There's nothing _in_ the blasted underground floors, jerkface…" Akihiro had sent him down there for that very reason, he was sure of it. Yaonaru Akihiro, whom sadistic gods had chosen to lead this mission.

Pff, gods. That would be Samael. Wasn't that his name, after all?

" _Send the Dragoon to the empty wards._ " Shiro threw open another door to another examination room, already knowing it would be empty. " _And the Doctor into the fray._ " Yep, empty. As all the others had been. " _Just 'cause he's your dear little brother. Asshat._ "

The hospital was temporarily closed for issues with mold: mold with very long fingers and very sharp fish-teeth, and an unfortunate penchant for sabotaging everything mechanical. Gremlins were easy targets. They settled, made a mess, were discovered, and were eliminated. Typical demons, as far as anyone was concerned. Anyone could deal with typical demons.

It was when demons started acting outside that pattern that you might want to start worrying.

Etymology was a small course included in exorcism history. It was a messy business, and it had no application whatsoever unless you met a Lord of Gehenna (in which case you would be more interested in running than in discussing the details of his name), and for those reasons only the essentials of demon etymology were taught. If you wanted the etymology of Samael, you had to go way back. Shiro had come across it during his digging, and remembered it only because it had confused him as much as it had confused the authors of those old books. Confusion was probably the reason it had been omitted in later editions: how do you explain that a demon bears the name of God?

Let alone one who is Satan's son.

And who sides with humans.

Not your typical demon.

Shiro snapped out of his thoughts and back to the mission. He had reached his third staircase, which meant he had covered one third of the basement level. The most advanced equipment down here were machines that rotated blood samples: the gremlins would be more interested in the fancier stuff, like the tomographs on floor five.

He slowed his pace, and his body settled into firing stance on autopilot: back straight, legs apart, gun aimed at the ground between his feet. Why was he stopping…? There were still two thirds left of useless recon before he could go up that staircase and do some good…

Samael was successful because he didn't act like your typical demon.

Shiro glanced again at the staircase, a small smile forming on his lips. Maybe he shouldn't act like your typical exorcist, then.

* * *

 _This_ was more like it.

Shiro was still catching his breath after jogging up the fourteen flights of stairs when he put a silver-coated blessed bullet in the first gremlin – an ugly little thing with spider leg-fingers and a crinkly hide that looked like dried mud. He peered around every corner, not wanting to be taken by surprise but also not wanting to take some other exorcist by surprise: mix humans with adrenaline and firearms and things can go very bad.

It would be wrong to say that going on a mission was relaxing… Well, then Shiro was wrong through and through, because he _did_ relax. Mentally. The labyrinthine corridors of the hospital drew his attention from Shizuku, Samael and dead classmates, and the low hum of electricity and the distant report of gunfire tuned his ears to the world outside his head. It made sense, in a way: escape your inner demons by hunting the ones outside.

Then again, you can encounter things worse than demons.

Shiro suppressed a groan when he spotted Kita around the next corner. The dick looked okay – a bit warm and out of breath, but other than that…

Other than… that little girl in hospital-clothing that he held by the hand…

"Oi, Kita-san." Shiro thought it best to announce he was there before he stepped clear of the corner. "Let go of that girl."

The girl in question jumped with fright and hid behind Kita's legs. She couldn't be more than five, and yet… Shiro couldn't explain what it was. Rather, the more he tried to put his finger on what it was that felt off, and where that feeling came from, the harder did it become to say anything about it. All he knew was that something about that girl was wrong.

"You? Shouldn't you be downstairs?" Kita looked as happy as Shiro about their encounter.

"Figured I'd do more good here, and I was right. That girl's not human", he retorted. The muzzle of his gun already pointed at the creature, whatever it was.

"Lower that gun. She's not a demon – I doused her in holy water."

"Then what is she?" Shiro didn't lower his gun. "Why's she here? The hospital is vacated."

The girl's face had crumpled up by the minute, and with Shiro's harsh questioning she began to cry, like any human girl would've done in this situation. Maybe he was wrong? She _looked_ human, and he couldn't imagine how a girl five years old could have become wicked enough for a demon to possess her, but that persistent feeling…

"Would you stop pointing a gun at a little girl, you imbecile? She said she was left behin-" Kita broke off and coughed violently into the crook of his arm. Too out of breath to be arrogant? How fast could he have been running with that little critter in tow?

That little critter, who wasn't even panting…

"She's not a demon: she's dead." Shiro strode closer, warily, steadily aiming the gun at the tiny, trembling shape cowering behind Kita. "And so are you, if you don't let her go. You've got boils coming up on your neck", he informed, throwing a glance at Kita's sweat-coated face. "It's an acheri, a disease ghost."

Finally, Kita let go of the kid – but she didn't let go of him. She clung to his leg with the high-pitched shrieks of a child frightened beyond sense and cried. She was scared to death, as ironic as that was considering that she was already-

" _No._ " Shiro lowered the gun a fraction as realisation hit him. " _She doesn't know she's dead._ " Tearing his eyes from the ghost he looked to Kita again. "She thinks she's alive."

"Then make her think *cough* otherwise!" Kita wheezed. "You can't fight ghosts with guns!" His attempts to peel the panicked girl from his leg caused the agitated skin on his fingers to split and leak a sticky, translucent substance. It was clear as day that Kita wouldn't be able to use his hands, with how his breath hissed out between his teeth in an attempt to not cry out in pain. He slid down on the floor with his back against the wall and tried to kick the ghost off his leg, to no avail. She might look frail, but she was strong. "She has to let *cough cough* let go of this life!"

"Right. Hey, kid! Kiddo!" Shiro put the gun away and sat down on his haunches, close enough to talk to the child and far enough that he could jump back if she tried to touch him. "What's your name? Listen to me! What's your name?"

No chance in hell she'd listen: she only buried her scrunched-up face in Kita's leg and screamed louder.

"You talk to her, I just scare her!"

"Hey… sweetie…?" Kita placed a sickly, boil-infested hand on her hair as gently as he could. "It's okay, girl. What's your name?"

He would rather bite a bullet than admit it aloud, but Shiro had to admire Kita's composure: he doubted he would've been able to sound so calm if he were dying. The girl hiccupped something that sounded like Miho between sobs and sharp, mewling cries.

"Good. Miho-chan… you weren't left behind here." Kita wet his parched lips. "You died. You're not alive. You're a ghost, and you're hurting people. *cough* Right now, you're *cough* hurting me…" And with no sign of stopping it, either: Miho wailed louder, and her stubby little fingers tightened their grip on his trousers. "You're dead. Please, move on…!"

This wasn't going anywhere…! Shiro racked his brain, tried to think of anything at all, any way to make a ghost realise it was-

"Miho-chan. Miho-chan!"

She glanced at him. The panic in her eyes was horribly real. Her tears were real. She was real. She was alone, afraid - alive. In her own mind she was alive, and the mind is a powerful thing. A human can't create illusions to fool others, like kitsune and tanuki, but she can create illusions to fool herself. Anything the mind creates in the world it has built for itself is real: and in this frightened little girl's world, she was alive.

"You think you're alive, don't you?" Shiro detached from himself, became cold and uncaring in face of what he was about to do. He unholstered his gun again and aimed carefully to avoid hitting Kita in the leg. " _That means you think you can die._ "

*bang*

The little body went limp, eyes wide in horror. Then it sank through Kita's leg, dissolved like mist that-

Shiro felt it. Like a breath of cold air against his face, like the thin string of fear plucked in the dark of the night, he felt the demon touch him as it left the dying vapours of Miho.

"Are you out of your mind?!" Kita coughed as he fumbled to get the syringe through the rubber stopper of the vial from his belt, and turn it upside down to draw out its contents. "That's not how you put a spirit to rest!"

"Give yourself that antidote and can it", Shiro snapped. He didn't know if the cold tightening he felt in his chest was from the demon, or from the look in Miho's eyes when he had fired; but he did know that if Kita was thinking of lecturing him right now, he would shut him up with force. "It might not be the proper way to do it, but at least you're alive."

"One should treat the dead with *cough* respect", he said and stabbed the syringe into his arm through the uniform. "That spirit won't find rest with your _barbaric_ manner of sending her on. Then again, I suppose I knew how you treat the dead already."

Kita wasn't Shizuku. Shizuku smacked him right in the face with his opinion: Kita hid his in a tiny, acidic barb aimed at just the right spot. Shiro checked a frown, not wanting to let Kita score any points on him.

"I didn't feel well at the ceremony."

Kita's smile as he swallowed three capsules of herbal extract was no smile. A smile implies happiness: this was mere scorn.

"That I can understand, after that pilgrim ape knocked out a tooth or two. It would seem your manners are distastefully crude even to one who comes by through begging and sleeping in the ditch."

"I just saved your life, you little shit", Shiro growled, feeling the coals in his chest burning through the cold. It would be _delightfully_ easy to shut Kita up when he was in this state. "Is gratitude too crude for people other than beggars and barbarians to know of?"

Apparently, since Kita didn't deliver any snide comeback. Or a "thanks", for that matter. What a dick… and what a perfect time to get some answers out of him.

Shiro was distracted by another gremlin, but not very long. Was it right, to squeeze an injured guy for information...?

"The only things you're good at are shooting and cursing", Kita remarked from the floor. "You don't *cough* know what you did, do you? She thought she was alive: in her mind, what you did was murder. A vengeful spirit will-"

"If you'd rather wanted me to let her kill you, it isn't too late to fix that."

Telling an empty threat from a serious one is difficult for most, because few have ever been faced with a serious threat: but when you are, there is no mistaking it. There is a calmness about the voice that contrasts jarringly with the words it speaks, in a way that sets your very bones tingling.

Kita's bones tingled: still, his mind couldn't accept what his tense, weakened body told him.

"What are you implying?"

Shiro had to read the whisper on his lips as a sudden burst of gunfire echoed through the corridors farther away.

"Just saying I'd rather avoid an accident", he said, raising his arm ever so slightly to aim the muzzle at Kita's legs on the floor. "Ricocheting bullets and such, can happen to the best of us – happened when your brother was on a mission with Todo Eiji, right?"

The look on Kita's face made him smile darkly on the inside. So high and mighty in the classroom, but in a field situation you could always trust his nerves. It was a look that begged for a warning shot, just to see the little bastard wince and yelp. He was scared - scared down to his fucking bones, but not in a million years would he give up trying to hide it. Hide, but unable to run.

It was a look that filled Shiro with a satisfaction that was at the same time chilling and eerily intoxicating.

"So, about that talk you and your brother wanted to have with me: would now be a good time?"

"…you're out of your mind", the lanky guy said in a low voice, staring at him as one would stare at a madman. "You're not fit for fieldwork. You're demented."

"A bit on the cold side, maybe", he stated, letting a bit of that dark smile slip onto his lips, "but I like to think of myself as practical: it's a lot more practical to chat this way than with your brother acting coat rack. What were you two discussing that evening?"

"Family business", was the tense reply.

"Indeed? How about we pretend I'm family, then?" He let the smile grow wider; grow meaner. "My grades say I could be. Truth is I'm better than you, at everything. Akihiro-senpai knows it, too. He sent me down the basement to give you a fighting chance, didn't he? And even then, I have to come and save your ass." Oh, how he had _longed_ for an opportunity to say that to the little brat. " _I'm such an asshole._ " Keen observation. Saying he was sorry for it would've been a lie, though. "You could say you owe me: so what's that family business again…?"

Kita held it together well, but there was that tiny sharpening of his jaw line that betrayed clenched teeth, and that almost unnoticeable look of grappling in his eyes: grappling for threads that were coming undone. How small he was, sagging against the wall like that…

Shiro registered the sound of tiny, hard feet clattering against linoleum floor before Kita could shout the warning. He aimed the gun backwards at the sound and fired: the steady rhythm ended in an abrupt thud that skidded to a halt.

"Sorry, didn't catch that. You were saying…?"

"We were talking about the artefact", Kita said in low tones, wary eyes burning into him. "And how to best keep it safe."

"Hand it over to True Cross Order, then." They had brought that up at the hearing last Christmas: Deep Keep was the safest bunker in the country. " _But-_ " But Yaonaru had turned down the offer every time. "Or is _that_ what you're keeping it safe from…?" Yes, the quick flicker in Kita's eyes told him. Yes: there was something going on there that he didn't feel like sharing. "What is that artefact, and why don't you want the Order to have it?"

Kita's lips twitched as humour temporarily overrode nervousness. His gaze didn't flicker this time, no: it filled with contempt.

"The Order?" he snorted.

Shiro flinched when the walkie-talkie in his belt conveyed a crackling voice:

"This is Yaonaru Akihiro. We have located the gremlin nest. All exorcists assemble in room 698-B in the cardiology ward, sixth floor. Do you copy?"

"Yaonaru Kita, copy", Kita spoke into his transmitter, not once taking his eyes off Shiro. "Incapacitated, without serious injury thanks to Fujimoto Shiro, who will be joining you in 698-B shortly." He didn't click it off, only gave Shiro a cold look and jerked his head in the direction of the staircase.

Shiro didn't bother with long looks and meaning glares: he jogged off to the stairs. The opportunity to make Kita talk was past, but it hadn't been entirely wasted.


	5. Not again

It had been easy to exterminate the gremlins once the nest was found. Shiro didn't even get a reprimand for neglecting his assigned duty, so maybe Kita did feel that he owed him something for saving him, despite the questioning.

The van dropped the exorcist students off at the Academy's Southern gate, and Shiro set a brisk pace for the dorms in the light rain. Saburota was only in early in the morning and late at night, at which point Shiro made sure to be either asleep or out of their shared room. He didn't know what the senpai made of his stunt the day of the attack, and he'd rather not discuss the matter. He did, however, need to write a report on the mission he had just finished.

It was the first time their class had been split up with different senpais to work on separate missions: Shiro with Kita, Shizuku with Sen, Ryuuji with-

*thud*

"You get zero points in survival test~" Midori sang and wiggled her toes into his back just to emphasise her point. "How did mission walk, Shiro-kun?"

"Go", came his muffled voice from the damp ground. He _had_ heard something up on the arcade beams, but he'd thought it was a pigeon. "You get zero points in grammar. It went well – I had to save Kita-san from a ghost, but other than that it was okay." Feeling the weight bounce off his back, he got to his feet and dusted himself off. Midori's uniform looked like it had taken a heavy beating, but herself she shone like the sun. "And how did yours go?"

Midori brought up her lean arm and patted her bicep with a smug expression.

"Like water in mountain stream: many rocks ahead, but none could stop us~" Then, her ears sagged a little, and her expression became worried. "Ryuuji-kun should not come. His body is there, his mind not. Is good to let the dead live in you, yes", she said, patting her chest to indicate what she meant. "Not good to let death live your life. He needs to set straight." She cocked her head with a mournful look that was horrible on her features. "And you too."

No, not again…

"Yeah, I may have been a little off the last days", he said, checking the impulse to run a hand through his hair. He didn't have much hope of fooling Midori – she was more demon than human in her way of _knowing_ you – but nervous ticks wouldn't help any. "I mean, with Agari-chan's death and all… I'm not good at dealing with such things. Sorry if I've been acting out of-"

No, he wasn't fooling her one bit. Midori sneaked up to him, staring transfixed at him as she did; one step at a time or in series of little skips, like a cat chasing an elusive speck of light.

"What did you do, Shiro-kun…? Your eyes… you had demon's eyes before, and now a heart to match… what did you do?" She touched his face gingerly, as if she were afraid he would shatter. "When you came, day after the attack, you had his smell on you. Thick, all over you. Smell of darkness, smell of sweet candy and strong tea. Shiro-kun, what did you do?"

…what do you say to that? How do you answer the plea in those eyes, where tears of desperation are dammed with the hope of your unspoken words? What do you say, when those unspoken words are lies?

Nothing. You say nothing. You stand there, gagged with unseen cloth, and watch the dams break when no false promises come to their support.

"Stupid Shiro-kun! Stupid, stupid, stupid!" Midori shrieked, voice cracking; and cracking something inside him. "Why don't you listen?! Why don't you open your eyes?!" She beat her fists against his chest, as if hammering on a door that wouldn't open. "He makes darkness grow in you! He makes heart hard and dead in you!"

"I'm sorry." He wrapped his arms around her and halted the barrage of blows: not so much for the physical pain it caused. "I'm sorry, Midori-chan. I'm sorry and I'm stupid." Just, please, don't let her end like Shizuku… " _I wish I could tell you, I really do._ " How he would've loved to hold her like this, under different circumstances…

"Why…?" she rasped into his shoulder, arms locked between her body and his. "Fox doesn't go to wasp nest when stung. Dog doesn't go to snake when bit. Moth flies to fire, but only once", she said quietly. "Are you a moth, Shiro-kun? If I say fire burns, will you still fly into it? Or will you be fox, and listen when I say wasp stings?"

"I don't know", he murmured. Excellent reply. Would solve everything. "I think I'm just an idiot, unfortunately."

"I set you straight, Shiro-kun." There was a muffled sob when she whispered into his shirt, and Shiro felt like he would, indeed, break apart in pieces if this continued. "I set you straight! Why you go back to crooked?"

Yeah, why…? One hand tentatively moved to rest on her head. He didn't know anything about comforting people, but he honestly wanted – _needed_ , dammit! – to do right by her, somehow, by any means…

"…it's who I am", he mumbled. Mere inches from his eyes, he watched her furry, black-tipped ears twitch, and bit back a wave of guilt. Dammit, she was such a lovely girl, so kind, so honest, so soft… and he was a genuine asshole. "I'm not a good person, Midori-chan. Really, I'm… not a guy you should go worrying for. Please, don't worry about me."

"You say stupid things. His smile-"

"Is a dagger, ready to stab me in the back – I know." He glanced up at the arced stone beams, and the pale grey sky they supported. " _And yet I keep thinking it's the only smile I'll see until this settles… If it does settle._ " Shiro drew a breath, and the scent of flowers and fighting reached him from Midori's hair. "You're worried I will get hurt, and I really don't deserve your concern… I appreciate it, but…" Oh come on, he could do better than that! Why make it sound like he was about to die, or embark on a journey with no return? Seriously… "Will you trust me if I say I flew into the fire, and it didn't burn me?"

Midori untangled herself gingerly to look at him. It's very rare that people actually _look_ at you. That they search for the soul in your eyes and read the fine print of your life in the scars and creases: that they endeavour to see the person behind the face. It's a frightful thing, to be scrutinised like that. It's also a rare privilege, and one that Shiro didn't quite feel he deserved.

"You didn't burn…" Her gaze wandered from feature to feature, trying to find the reason for the hesitation in her voice. "…but you didn't come through unscathed. Maybe you don't notice… because you don't see…" She removed his glasses and leaned into his face, making sure he could see her eyes without them. Big, worried eyes with gold still melting shimmering droplets into the lower lashes. "Every time you go through fire, you burn. Little by little, Shiro-kun. Is the most dangerous kind of damage: turns mountain to sand, bone to dust, river to ravine. Without anybody notice." She put his glasses back, gently, and Shiro was awkwardly reminded of how people lay flowers on coffins. "Little by little, he will burn you to ashes."

She was probably right – hell, she always was – but the moth flies to the flame still. Shiro was a moth, more so than he was a fox or dog; always drawn to the flickering temptation of danger, of the half-crazy stunts and thrilling fun it promised. And Samael… _Mephisto_ … was a flame he knew he wouldn't be able to resist.

"Look, Midori-chan… You're a lovely girl, and a wonderful friend, and I hope you'll still… still be my friend, even if I'm an idiot. Just… whatever happens, don't worry about me. My choices, my consequences: it has nothing to do with you, and there's no need for you to-ouch!"

Midori looked very cute when she impersonated an angry puffer fish, but that flick on his nose reminded him that with demons, appearance counted for nothing.

"Shiro-kun is still stupid. And I still worry." He expression relaxed and became something that hurt infinitely more than the flick. "But if Shiro-kun wants to pretend is fine, I will pretend it is."

Shiro had no idea what he replied after that. He couldn't remember if he had thanked her, or snarled at her, or… or simply left. What he did know was that something had broken inside him.

* * *

He had no idea where he went. He walked in circles, walked anywhere: anywhere that would lead away from himself, and the path he'd sworn he would never tread rushed by under his feet. Circles, infinite circles. That you have a crap dad doesn't mean you're crap, too…? Then why was Midori putting on a mask with painted smile, like his mother had done for this father?

Water. Water between his fingers. Every drop and every purpose he tried to hold onto slipped his grasp, poured out of his hands and into a vortex under his feet. That was the only word for it: vortex. A steady maelstrom of misfortunes sucking him towards the bottom of the ocean: no matter what direction he turned, he kept going downward.

" _How the hell did this happen…?_ "

Humankind is the only creature capable of producing a venom that transmits without being injected or inhaled, without touch or thought or intention. Like acid, secrets gauge chasms and fill them with silence – while just as silently eating away at the minds they separate. Shiro had too many secrets for one mind, and they were dragging him into the vortex.

" _Stupid fucking way of losing friends…!_ " And whose fault was that? Who chose the secrets? Who chose to kill humans for the sake of a demon…? " _A monkey that everyone around will be deaf and blind to: speaks evil it shouldn't speak, and can't speak the evil it should._ " Shiro hissed the cigarette smoke out between his teeth, covering city streets he didn't see anyway." _Why are you always right, Midori…?_ "

Samael and his schemes…

Yaonaru and their schemes…

…and his own blasted talent for screwing up with people…

…and six bodies in burial urns.

Shiro paced the streets of True Cross Town in a haze of smoke. Sometimes his footfalls drowned out the echo of the questions and the tense voices, and sometimes they drifted through. Sometimes he managed to leave the worried glances behind, and sometimes they caught up with him.

Sometimes he saw Susumu's calm eyes before the trigger was pulled…

…and the vortex dragged him deeper down.

* * *

He had no idea where he was. Not where he was in True Cross Town, or where _he_ was. He could always get back to the Academy by sticking his cram school key in any door; but to get his friends back… to get back from wherever he was going…

" _If they would all just stop worrying about my well-being, everything would be fine._ "

A smile that wasn't a smile tugged Shiro's lips. Yeah, if they could stop caring about him he would be fine: wasn't that just a lovely thing to think of the few people who tried to be his friends? Not that it would be fine anyway. Even if they stopped asking questions, he would be stuck with the answers.

" _They're right to worry about me_ ", he thought. " _Even if I didn't have the contract to think about, I could never tell them what I did. I'm seriously fucked up…_ " And darkness rose up from the vortex to swallow him. " _Not again…_ "

If you have reached the point where your first reaction to possession is "not again", you know you have a problem.

" ** _You're too kind on yourself, Fujimoto Shiro. Murdering children merits a bit more than 'fucked up'._** "

" _Shut up and get out of my body_ ", he snarled at it, trying to rein in darkness that was, like every other aspect of his life, slipping through his fingers.

" ** _And you are afraid you might do it again._** "

…slipping… through his fingers…

" ** _It was easier than you thought, was it not? Didn't think you had it in you, but once faced with the decision you didn't hesitate. Not once, not twice: six times, and you didn't hesitate~_** "

" _I had to! I…!_ "

Could have backed down.

Could have let them explain.

Could have let them go on, once he learnt who Mephisto really was.

" _I…_ "

Had made a choice. A good choice, or a bad one…?

" ** _Free will is a waste if you don't make use of it, no~? You have made good use of yours, boy. So much suffering caused by you – makes one wonder: are ye even human?_** " it said, borrowing Shizuku's voice from his memories. " ** _Are you even human_** ", it whispered in seductive tones, " ** _when you fall to demons so easily…?_** "

" _'course I'm human!_ " he snarled, clinging to the sensation of a wall against his left shoulder. " _And way better than you!_ "

" ** _Are_ _you?_** " Their faces came back to him, a rapid succession of flashes tearing like poison arrows through his mind. Agari's eyes going empty and dead as he- as he- " ** _You chose demons over humans, did you not~?_** " Katsu's blood pouring out of his belly, pouring out dark and hot over his hands and _god no stop_ " ** _Of all the girls at school, the half-demons were the ones that captured your interest; when questions were raised, you defended your demon principal –_** killed **_for your demon principal._** " Susumu's... _head_... " ** _Say those words again, little murderer~ Say you're human, if you truly believe you are._** "

" _I…_ "

Six lives for one.

Six humans for a demon.

Six dead, butchered, murdered humans for...

" _I..._ "

Did it in cold blood, perfectly aware of what he was doing, shedding lives like withered flower petals.

You don't need to be born a demon to be like one.

" _I..._ " He couldn't; no matter how he tried to force the words out, he couldn't... " _I saved my friend_ ", he ground out.

The demon roared with laughter in his head, and Shiro regretted his thoughts. He heard how naïve it sounded. How far-fetched, laughable, impossible; for a demon to have a human friend…

_…he slipped…_

" ** _Your friend, you say? And are you_** **his** ** _friend…? Or merely a pastime puppet to serve his purposes?_** " The wall he had leaned on disappeared from his shoulder, unconsciousness caved in on him- " ** _No demon would ever consider a human his equal._** "

" _Bloody arrogant twat..._ "

Like a certain someone he knew... and knew _well_...

Shiro closed his ears, closed his heart to the gnawing doubts, and felt for the fragmented outlines of his self. Drowning, yes: drowning in his own darkness, but definitely human. A poor fucking excuse for a human, but a human still.

A human with a good understanding of demons.

" _Damn right I chose demons over humans_ ", he said, feeling his own will creep into the darkness, like the roots of an invasive weed bury into a host. " _It ain't fun if it's no challenge._ " He rose above the sticky unconsciousness, bit by bit crawling out of the black bog inside. " _And to a hell-raiser like me_ ", he smiled as vision slowly returned to his eyes, " _there's no challenge more fun than raising hell for arrogant bastards like you and that finicky prince._ "

* * *

No demon ever considers a human his equal. Demons have the power of magic and regeneration, strength and stamina; humans have imagination. That is the one quality they have that enables them to fight demons on equal terms, countering claws with swords, magic with chants, minions with familiars, regeneration with medicine. That is what exorcists teach their students; that, and to never listen to a demon's words. A demon's words are the only weapon humans can never counter, because it turns their imagination against them. For that very reason, demons never expect a human to try. They never expect a human to challenge them on their own ground. They never expect a human to act as if he were truly their equal.

Shiro didn't care for titles, human or demon ones: he challenged anyone who sat on horses too high for his taste. He made poor choices at times, of course he did: that, if anything, was the essence of human nature. Humans try and fail, do bad and good... and in that, he was perfectly human.

The fight raged evenly after that. It was a rot demon, and judging from the effort he had to put into keeping awareness of his body, a mid-level one. He would never forget the verses for those.

When he had stayed awake long enough to chant the fatal verses to completion, he was exhausted. The demon was gone, and his arms, hands and knees scraped bloody from when his body had flung itself this-way-and-that at the half-conscious will of its respective owners.

" _Finally…_ " The dark shadows of his doubts drew back, settling around the burning coals in his chest like chilled travellers around a fire: invisible to the human eye, but a welcoming beacon for any demon around. "Right…" He picked some gravel out of a particularly unpleasant wound on his elbow. "Time to pay that old goat a visit."


	6. My game, my rules

Shiro tried to get his thoughts in order as he walked up to the office, but it's hard to be prepared when you have no idea what to expect. Would it be Mephisto sitting in that high-backed chair, or would it be Prince Samael? As embarrassing as it was, Shiro felt his feet slow as he approached the white double doors. He had hesitated before those doors once before, when he hadn't known what he would find behind them. All over again, he didn't know. So much had changed, and yet he hoped… if only one thing could stay the same in this mess… if only just one thing, he hoped it would be Mephisto.

Shiro drew a breath, smacked himself mentally, and turned the han-

"G-huah…!"

It hit him in the gut with enough force to knock him flat on his back in the corridor: the panda wastebasket itself pivoted a landing on the floor, looking extremely pleased with itself. Shiro stared at it, unable to find words or air.

"Did you see the _height_ of that jump?" An enthusiastic voice drifted out from the office. "It was the best so far!"

"No: did you see where my kidney landed?" he snarled back, crawling up on his feet with wheezing breath and intestines in disarray. " _Stupid, childish, ridiculous…!_ "

"Tsk tsk, and you study for Doctor?" the lilting voice chided. "The kidneys are-"

"In the back: I know. And I swear your stupid wastebasket dented my spine." He staggered into the office doubled-over. The panda bounced ahead of him, chirping and squeaking at its master behind the heavy wooden desk. It was rewarded with a crumpled caramel wrapping from a near-empty bowl. "Oh, great: you're teaching it to attack people."

"I'm making use of its unknown potential. Good afternoon, Shiro~ Show him again, will you?"

The wastebasket bounded off to the edge of the carpet and charged like a triple jumper. It leapt into a swan dive, tilting its body horizontal in the air. It would land on its head… but just before it made contact with the floor, the lid flipped open and catapulted the familiar into a second arch, aimed straight for-

Shiro caught it before it could rupture his spleen. The little demon squeaked proudly in his hands.

"I'm thinking of teaching it twists next", Mephisto announced with a face of pure, childish joy. Yep, that was Mephisto. Beyond all doubt, Mephisto.

"You're the same as ever." A smile – a _real_ smile – ghosted his lips. It felt… strange? Unaccustomed? …good? Regardless, he made sure to catch hold of it before it slipped. "So what should I call you these days? Your real name wouldn't go down well." He put the panda down on its side, disabling more attacks, and grabbed a chair. "But if I shorten it, it might." Shiro deposited the chair in front of the desk, and his sore body in it: the smile held. "I think you look like a Sammy."

Mephisto's eyelids sank like slow guillotine blades.

"Use that repulsive moniker ever again and I will have your exorcist ID read 'Shiro-pon' when you graduate."

"Right: Mephisto it is."

Normal. People might have different attitudes towards normal; contempt, idealisation, fear, longing… It all depends on what is normal to the individual, but most individuals react the same to _their_ normal-of-choice: they relax. They feel at ease, feel comfortable, feel… good. As the word-fencing and the displeased squeals of the panda drowned out the past days' arguments, Shiro relaxed into the feeling of this very peculiar situation that was _his_ normal.

"Trivial matters out of the way, what brings you to my office?"

"I was wondering if you've still got my pendant somewhere, after last time? I need it back."

The demon's smile curled like the tail of a cat that has spotted prey.

"Is that really the question you should be asking~?"

Oh yes, everything was normal: and Mephisto was playing games where Shiro could only fumble his way ahead blindly. He looked at the demon, trying to read… Was there something he had missed? Something he should have thought of? Something…

"…you could have sent your bat with it, as you did before", he said, testing the proverbial ice with careful steps. "But you didn't." His brow furrowed as Mephisto's smile grew more… satisfied? "You wanted me to come for it. Why?"

" _That's_ the question: bravo~ And you are about to provide the answer to it. Eins, zwei, drei!"

"…the Ceremonial Hall?" Shiro glanced around the familiar training ground. There was nothing out of the ordinary with it: the high arcs of the stone ceiling were the same, the ghostly lantern lights hovering on the water surface were the same, and this all made Shiro more suspicious of what Mephisto was up to.

"It shall house a most unusual ceremony indeed." The principal removed his top hat and pulled a sheathed katana out of it. "I want you to fight to kill", he said, tossing the weapon to Shiro. "Summon every ounce of strength and dexterity in you and try to cut me down."

He was still Mephisto, alright. Doing weird crap without any explanation. Shiro had to admit, he couldn't even guess what this was about. What did sparring have to do with his pendant? Or was it just his next weird game…?

"Interesting~" Mephisto poofed both swords away after a while of intense sparring that didn't amount to anything.

"What is?" Shiro asked, wiping the back of his hand across his dripping forehead. Hadn't they sparred a hundred times before…?

"Patience, Shiro~" he smiled, a strange spark flickering in his eyes. "Eins, zwei, drei!"

This time, they were…

"Are we… in Tokyo?"

"Tokyo it is, but we aren't here." Mephisto took in the surroundings with the airs of a proud gardener. "Only our minds are. So, tell me: what do you see?"

Besides the milling people and the multi-story houses and the neon advertisem-?

"What the…?"

You would always see coal tars in cities, and the occasional goblin making passers-by trip or snatching newspapers out of peoples' hands. But this…

"There are… demons. Everywhere." He stared with big eyes at the multitude of shapeless shadows hovering among the humans. They buzzed like millions of wasps wrapped in cotton, in the streets and in shop windows and phasing through walls. "But they aren't doing anything. They just…"

"Wait", Mephisto provided softly. "Wait for a chance to slip into an unsuspecting host: these are spirits that have not yet fully transitioned from Gehenna to Assiah. What can you tell me about them?"

"What? I don't… or… I _think_ that, that one", he pointed to a churning cloud of black in the middle of a road crossing, "is a fire type. And that one…" His brow furrowed, though he wasn't sure what he was looking for, or listening for, or what senses you had access to when you were just a disembodied presence. "A rot demon…?"

"Interesting indeed~ Tell me, Shiro: have you noticed anything different since the events in Deep Keep?"

"Besides screwing up with people more than usual? No, not really", he said dryly.

"Hasty hasty: think again", he sang: and dissolved when a hurried man in suit walked through him. "Think in terms of demons."

Mephisto was still there when the man had passed, still with that odd spark in his eyes: and Shiro remembered where he had seen it. That was the gleam from the first day they had met, when Shiro had boldly laid down his demands for their contract. And if he were to chance a guess at what that meant, he would say it was literally the spark of interest.

"They've been after me a lot", Shiro replied in level tones: he knew the demon well enough to know that when he found something about you interesting, you'd better be on guard. "That's why I came to get my charm back."

"How would you describe Futotsuki Sen, your classmate?" Mephisto managed to say it as if they had been talking about Shiro's impression of Sen all along and the subject was nothing strange at all. He began strolling leisurely down the sidewalk, through the busy people as if he were smoke.

"What…?" When you don't understand a thing, just play along. Shiro followed, reflexively stepping out of the way for people who could neither see nor touch him. "Um, distant…?" He recalled the serene look on her face that time during their Esquire exams, when Midori and Sen's goblin had feasted on raw deer-meat. "Creepy. As hell. And…" And during the same exam, she had wanted to abandon Agari and Kita to die. "Callous. Like she doesn't... I don't know how to put it…"

"Isn't like other girls?" Mephisto filled in over his shoulder. "Is emotionally distant?"

"Yeah. And where are you going with all these questions?"

"To a phenomenon known as 'imprint'."

Imprint? Wasn't that what animal newborns did…?

"Never heard of it."

"Not surprising." They strolled down the lively shopping street of Chuo Dori; ghosts, side by side with the living. "What the Vatican fears, it tends to bury deep. Imprint was first observed in the Futotsuki clan, since they are one of few demon-worshipping societies to survive to modern day. As you know, they bond with demons by letting them tap into the darkness in their hearts: however~" He reached out and flicked away a coal tar that was tickling a woman's nose and making her sneeze. "A bond of that kind works both ways: demon taps into human, human taps into demon, and lines blur. After years of bonding, neither is entirely human or entirely demonic. Futotsuki Sen isn't like other girls, because her heart has housed that goblin familiar for most of her short lifetime. That", he said, turning to face Shiro with a smile like a silken garrotte string, "is imprint. You", he poked a gloved finger in his chest, "show the first signs of it."

Somewhere, in a body hundreds of miles away, Shiro felt the words hit his gut with the force of ten wastebasket pandas.

"What…? I… when your heart was…?"

"With normal bonding, it takes years for a human to imprint to the point it would be noticeable: you seem to have done it in seconds. Granted, containing a demon's heart at full power is a tad more intense than mere bonding", Mephisto snickered, stroking his beard with the expression of a stock market shark eyeing promising figures. "I'm not sure it has ever been done before."

"And what, exactly… would an imprint entail?" he asked, covering rather successfully how utterly thrown off balance he was. " _Not that there's anything wrong with Sen… Oh screw that: there's a_ lot _wrong with Sen._ "

"Don't ask me~ That depends entirely on the human. What grows in the human heart is planted by humans, and the only thing demons do is make the seeds thrive: an imprint merely augments the darkness already in you, a proverbial push in the direction you are already headed."

No. No, no, no, _no_ …!

" _I killed..._ " Not to mention stealing, fighting, using people, lying – all of it, all the wrongs he'd ever done crawled up his throat and clogged it to the point he could barely breathe. "How do you reverse it?" he croaked with a feeling that his far-off body was going to be sick any moment. " _Probably comes with one hell of a price tag, but that won't matter._ "

It's one thing to be targeted by demons: that he could live with. But to live with himself being-

"There is no such thing as reversing an imprint."

What…?

"Say that again…?" he whispered, barely able to hear his own voice for the buzzing vertigo in his ears. The ocean of life around them kept moving as if nothing had happened. Just kept moving. As if the world hadn't ended there and then.

"There is no such thing as reversing an imprint", the demon repeated with the ease of the truly heartless. "Even after a bond is severed, the imprint remains."

"Are you fucking shitting me? There has to be _some_ way of reversing it, or halting it, or- or why the hell would you tell me if there wasn't _anything_ to do about it?!" he shouted, partway between rage and panic.

"Now now, calm down~"

"Don't you tell me to fucking calm down! _You_ put this imprint on me, and you will find some way of removing it! I don't care if you think it's interesting or _fun_ : you're gonna turn me back to normal or I-"

"Hush, little lion~" Mephisto purred softly, so close the gloved finger on Shiro's lips was the only thing separating them from Mephisto's. Shiro did close his mouth, just in case that finger was suddenly removed. "Take a look around: you have quite the audience~"

The humans milled about them, unaware of the phantom visitors. But they did have an audience. Without Shiro noticing, the shadowy forms of the demons had closed in on them; watching them without eyes, circling them like vultures waiting for the prey to draw its final breath.

"You are here in mind only, with no body for them to possess", Mephisto murmured next to his face. "But they sense the darkness in you, as you sense the darkness in them. Kukukuku, indeed, you have imprinted fast."

Shiro's lungs emptied in a single breath, as of a giant fist getting him in the gut. He wasn't a good person, he was fully aware of that. But to have it thrown in his face like this, with these things watching him from another dimension, eating him with unseen eyes…

"I told you, because this is your future." Mephisto made a sweeping gesture, as if the shapeless, buzzing entities waiting to tear into him were a grand view from the top of the world. "They will be your companions; your silent watchers, your ever-present suitors, waiting to make your body theirs."

"Tell me you're joking…" he breathed.

"Sadly, no." That voice didn't know the concept of sadness. "Good to see you have cooled your head: now, to business~" Mephisto snapped his fingers, and minds and bodies reassembled on their chairs in his office.

The cheerful stripes and pinks and yellows seemed to stab the eyes worse than ever. Shiro's mind was still on the streets of Tokyo, face to face with… his future.

" _Calm down, it probably sounds worse than it actually is. Sen might be weird, but she's had that familiar, what, ten years? And she's no maniac killer, is she?_ " But Sen was imprinted on a goblin: he was imprinted on a bloody _Prince_ … " _Even he doesn't know exactly what will happen…_ " Keep calm, keep it together. "Is there anything… _anything_ that can be done?" he asked, fumbling to come to terms with it. To accept that the chaos over the past days was going to become his everyday life. His fingers clung awkwardly to the curved armrests of the chair: he had never needed a cigarette this badly in his whole life.

"Why, certainly~" Mephisto said in light tones, stirring health-hazardous amounts of sugar into a steaming teacup. "An imprint is an integrated part of your own nature: while it can't be reversed or removed, it is up to you whether to embrace or suppress that nature."

*tink* *tink* *tink*

The spoon's clinking against the teacup was rhythmic and thin and nerve grating.

"It's the choice all humans make, every minute of every day: just a bit more challenging for someone whose nature tips towards the demonic", he smiled.

"That's all you have to say, after doing this to me?" Shiro seethed, feeling a furnace open in his gut to line every word with an edge of molten steel. "'Take care of it yourself, good luck and good bye'? Not even 'sorry I infected you with an imprint that will turn you into a monster'?"

He wasn't surprised, not really, but he _was_ furious; and if anything in the room deserved to bear the brunt of that, it was that callous, smiling bastard in the high-backed chair. Said bastard didn't so much as flinch, though. Didn't seem fazed one bit by Shiro's accusations.

"Would you describe yourself as pure of heart, Shiro? A servant of good, led by conscience to treat his fellow humans with kindness and respect~?" Sweet mockery curled like a scorpion tail in his voice; and in the green depths of the half-mast eyes, Shiro glimpsed Prince Samael. "You were no saint to begin with, little lion", he purred. "On the contrary, you had enough darkness in your heart to be compatible with mine." Compatible? _Compatible,_ with Satan's son…?

*tink* ... *tink* ...

*tink*

"With or without imprint, you are a human in appearance and a demon at heart: and you are so by choice." Mephisto put the spoon down on the saucer and sipped. "Which has further supported my decision not to return the charm miss Honda gave you."

"What?" After all he'd said, after all he'd showed him, he was going to _deny_ him…? "Are you completely out of your mind?!" he bellowed, a hairsbreadth from grabbing his chair and bringing it down on the demon's head. "You'll make me a sitting duck for all Gehenna's demons to gang up on – _that's_ your idea of helping out?! I'll be dead within a week – I've had two demons trying to possess me already!"

"Trying", Mephisto emphasised with a polite smile that made Shiro ponder if a seventh murder would make any greater difference, now that he had been oh-so-helpfully pushed down that slope anyway. "You exorcised them yourself, did you not?"

"If you think I'll spend the rest of my life like that, you can go-"

Mephisto snapped his fingers and had Shiro effectively gagged and bound to the chair.

"Such hot blood in the young ones", he sighed, resting his cheek in his hand with the smile of one who is watching an unruly puppy attempt to drag away a shoe larger than itself. "As sweet as that mouth of yours is, it's good to also know how to use your ears. I have important things to tell you."

Oh, probably more great news, then. Shiro snorted through his gag and attempted to murder Mephisto with glares alone.

"My father cannot access Assiah, for the simple reason that nothing here is strong enough to contain him", he drawled. "At full power, there is nothing that can endure my presence either." Mephisto sipped tea with his little finger raised proudly as the bowsprit on a barque. "You should have died in Deep Keep, but your body seems – for lack of better word – _built_ to house powers that humans normally can't. Isn't that interesting~?" he beamed. "Though, of course, I won't be the only one to think so. Father will be very interested in that body; not yet, but once he learns of your existence you will have to fight for your life every waking moment. 'All the more reason to have the pendant', your eyes say." Mephisto answered his glare with a pleasant smile. "That trinket will protect you no more than a sheet of rice paper would shield you from a downpour. Satan is a god: no charm or ward on earth can keep him away."

Shiro felt himself empty like a broken water tank. No, this couldn't…

"Fortunately for you, that resilient body came with a resilient mind~" That… was not a smile. That was an invitation to a game of Russian roulette, written out in two lines of sharp, white letters. "You will endure demons' assaulting you, until you learn to fend for yourself with no other ward than that mind: and you will temper it into a shield strong enough to keep demons out by force of will alone – strong enough to keep even Satan himself out. As long as he can't gain access to the darkness in your heart, he can't possess you. Furthermore~" The cup made the spoon company on the saucer with a soft clink. "As Director of True Cross Order Japan, I am bound by duty to eliminate demonic threats to Assiah. Should you fail to block access to your heart, you would be a potential gateway for Satan to enter Assiah: you see the pinch I'm in, yes~?"

It is an art, to menace without sounding menacing. To weave words into a silken slipknot noose and meander it around one's neck with serpentine politeness. It is an art, and Mephisto had had millennia to perfect it.

"The choice you have to make is a rather simple one: temper your mind, or I will have to eliminate you." He snapped his fingers and released Shiro from his bonds. "Well…?"

"'Well' what?" he snarled through clenched teeth. "It's not even a real choice. I'll do whatever it takes to stay alive and stay me."

"Splendid~!" Mephisto clapped his hands together in one of his nerve grating turnabouts. "Now, you already know the basics of blocking possession, but to help you fully grasp the theory behind I have prepared a few educational illustrations~" He snapped his fingers and summoned his bat to hover beside him with a stack of crayon drawings in its claws. "This is you", he said, using an oversized polkagris as pointer, and tapped at what looked like a yellow-haulmed karami daikon, "and when this demon", which looked more like a disgruntled potato with germ-horns, "tries to tap into your darkness, you must close your heart, as the next picture explains…"

Normal. Things would never be normal again.


	7. Limited edition toys

White hair.

White eyebrows, tilting down towards the bridge of his nose.

Pathetic beard-growth. Always.

Maroon eyes – drawing slightly downwards at the corners. Dark circles underneath.

Eyes like a demon…?

Shiro could see no demon in the features the mirror showed him. He splashed water on his face and looked at himself again, hands resting on the edges of the sink.

Orphan.

Troublemaker.

Small-time criminal.

Murderer.

Vessel of Satan.

" _At least it can't get any worse from here_ ", he thought with a wry smile at his reflection. Shiro put his glasses back on and went out for evening practice.

Closing one's heart was not a pleasant experience. That said, it wasn't unpleasant; just uncomfortable. It was like a starched uniform of the mind, stiff and creaking and restraining. It took a lot of concentration to maintain, and inside the Academy he occasionally let it slip to focus on lessons.

Outside the Academy, he held his shield up constantly. Tiring and annoying, yes, but it had to be drilled into a motor skill he could perform without even thinking. For now, however, he was glad that he had to divert his thoughts to it.

Tch, it _was_ unpleasant. No matter what he wanted to tell himself, it was. Close off your heart? Close off emotion with it. Close it in and lock it away and walk around like some robot imitation of a human. It wasn't so much a uniform as a mental isolation cell: nothing truly got through to him, and nothing really came out of him. It was similar, in a way, to the cold detachment that let him do horrible things without blinking. If you don't feel, you don't care: you know that what you do might hurt somebody, but that's a mechanical knowledge. It doesn't really bother you.

" _Brought it on myself, no use complaining about it…_ " he muttered as he strolled through the streets.

It was still early enough for people to be out, and late enough for some of them to be thinking of going home. Those were the decisions ordinary people concerned themselves with, worlds apart from him. Worlds so close, yet so far away: he saw all the coal tars hovering lazily in the air, and felt stronger presences awake in the dusk here and there. No one knew of those presences. No one knew of him.

He turned into an unlit alley, a shortcut to the less populated streets. A bitter smile crooked his lips: it wasn't humans he was out to meet, anyway. He was alone in the alleys between the laughing people and the desolate silence, a drifting entity between day and night. Alone between worlds.

* * *

Shiro hadn't walked more than fifteen minutes, tops, before he felt it. Now, he wiggled the unlit cigarette up and down with his tongue, pondering what to do. He knew he was being tailed, and he knew by whom. That didn't bother him: what did bother him was _how_ he knew. He just knew. Knew the way you know where your hand or foot is.

Telling him to quit skulking about would confirm that Shiro could sense him, which in turn would confirm that the imprint… was real. He didn't want to admit that. He didn't want to admit that he had changed, and would keep changing, even if-

" _Oh for crying out loud!_ " he snapped at himself. " _As if it would matter! Admitting or no admitting; doesn't change anything, does it?_ " He plucked the cigarette from his mouth to yell at Mephisto to show himself, but halted. No, he knew how to address that old goat _properly_ …

Shiro put the smoke back between his lips and fished out his lighter, acting as if nothing was amiss. Flicking the switch, and cupping his hand around the cigarette, he focused: focused on the part of him that wasn't him, but that he could still… feel.

He drew a breath of smoke, closed his lighter… and hurled it into the darkness behind a container for waste construction material.

"Nice catch", he said, casually shoving his hands into his pockets as Mephisto's immaculately white shape melted out of the shadows.

"Guten Abend to you too." The lamplight glinted off the lighter between his thumb and forefinger. "Need I really tell you that throwing things at people is very rude…?"

"It's quite rude to stalk people, too", Shiro observed in mock-polite tones.

"Stalk? Dear Shiro, a gentleman does no such thing. As your principal, I am responsible for your safety." Mephisto sauntered over to him with the hideous umbrella for walking stick. "Even more so since I have part in your current condition. I merely wanted to be sure nothing happens to you during practice."

Oh, what a load of crap.

"Really?" Shiro's smile widened into sardonic sweetness. "I thought guardian angels came from the other department. And with a little less fangs." He blew a fan of smoke at the sky, tapping ashes off the end of the cigarette while he did. "You're here to keep an eye on me, alright: I'm your new limited edition toy, and it would suck pretty hard if I got mangled by some rogue demon before you were done playing." He shifted his weight to his other foot, giving Mephisto a calculating look. "'Making use of its unknown potential', was that how you put it?" He held out his hand for his lighter. "First new trick to learn: blocking demons."

Oh, it amused him. He wouldn't let it show, but Shiro knew. There were ideas and expectations crawling in those green eyes like maggots in a cadaver. Mephisto always appreciated a bold player.

"First new trick learnt: sensing demons." Mephisto placed the lighter in his upturned palm. "And thinking like one."

Shiro tensed. Stared at that pleasant face. Realised.

" _Son of a…_ " He felt like crumpling up his head and all it's contents like a piece of trash paper: yes, he had just proven that he knew how demons worked. By giving such an accurate account of why Mephisto was tailing him, he had proven that well enough. "Tch, aren't you a clever one…?" he muttered as he tucked the lighter back into his pocket. Words drifted into his mind like a rancid stench you can't escape no matter where you turn your head: _are ye even human?_ "If you're done playing, can you leave?"

"Ah – and for the longest time I hoped the imprint would have transferred some manners into you", he sighed, tilting his head to the side with a less-than-impressed look. "Seems nothing will change that, however."

"You're not done playing, then", Shiro observed bluntly. "What do you want?"

"Always the wrong questions~" There was a smile in his voice, a voice that lowered as his eyelids did. "What do _you_ want, Shiro?"

"I want my old life back."

A life where he wasn't confined in the prison of his own heart. A life where he hadn't... done things he didn't want to think about.

Shiro didn't care if he told the plain truth to the demon: he would know anyway, just like Shiro knew he was being toyed with. The heated coals in his chest – the mark the demon had left on his heart – flickered like the gleam in Mephisto's eyes. Shiro subdued it. Wouldn't do to lose his temper, even if that bastard made it difficult not to.

"And what would you be willing to do, to have it back…?" Mephisto's voice was soft. Soft and sleek with promises that came at high cost.

Dealing with demons never brings any good. Dealing with demons always has you paying for more than you get. Dealing with demons is the last resort for the ones whose hearts have been eaten empty by fear, and whose hope has fallen apart to desperation.

…and then there are the ones whose hearts have closed to desperation and fear alike.

"Anything", he responded, seeing the wicked spark in the green eyes and coldly surrendering his fate to it.

"Excellent!" Said eyes shrunk to crescents above the wide grin, and the sleek devil became an overly enthusiastic market fair vendor. "No need for me to interfere, then~" He bid his farewell with a touch to the brim of his hat, and the white cape billowed as he turned on his heel to leave. Just like that.

"What…?" Focus broken, Shiro tumbled out of his detached heart in sheer bewilderment.

"With the will to do anything, I'm sure you can accomplish anything", he concluded in bouncy tones, winking over his shoulder. "Not quite able to follow a demon's line of thought after all, are you~?"

And before Shiro could piece together a snide reply, Mephisto had poofed away.

"Wha-? You arrogant little…!" Baiting him, _baiting_ him and making fun of him in such an insensitive…! "Next time that holy water will be in your bathtub, Sammy!"

No response. His presence could still be felt, but nowhere close by.

" _I can't believe that lame shit was the best I could come up with_ ", he snorted at himself, reaching for his lighter to re-light the cigarette that had gone out. " _What an absolute jerk he is._ " He groaned, feeling a nerve yank his eyebrow into a twitch. "Oi, you crap guardian angel!" he shouted at the darkening sky. "Hand my lighter back!"

No response. Shiro put the cigarette between his teeth anyway, shoved his hands into his pockets, and turned to walk back to the Academy. No demon-blocking practice when he was this wound-up. Mephisto wasn't done playing, no. Far from it.

* * *

_True Cross Town – a sprawling mass of life, as it were, its steady flow of humans the life-blood that filled its streets, milling in the thousands to carry out the daily work that poured nourishment into the districts and allowed for the steady breath of activity around the clock's hours. It had grown – overnight, even, one could say – where the_ _Academy had been built, like mycorrhiza nesting among the strong roots of a host tree. It supplied its host with nourishment, practice, goods, and students:_ _the Academy in turn provided protection, education, and payment. A mutualistic coexistence of finest sort. But that is how things work. The creation of one thing births another, adapted to suit_ _the needs of the first, and give rise to that intricate weft that binds together all the constituents of the world. That was merely one of the many ways in_ _which Assiah was… fascinating._

_Green eyes encompassed the town, now a city, through the century since its birth until the current size of it today. The dusk-lit lights at his feet_ _outnumbered the stars in the sky, the sounds of combustion engines and electricity and voices rising and falling like an ocean. All the wonders humanity had amazed him with, and yet..._

_Yet, humans were the most fascinating things of all._

_And out of all the thousands of humans in True Cross Town, Fujimoto Shiro had fallen into his hands. Fujimoto Shiro, the boy that could harbour the heart_ _of Gehenna's third strongest. A human boy with a cunning mind and a passionate heart – indeed, what an interesting toy Lady Chance had given him._

one thing births another

_That boy had potential, potential he couldn't even begin to assess…_

to suit the needs of the first

_So many possibilities laid out before him, outnumbering the lights in heaven and below…_

and give rise to a weft

_Given the right motivation, and the right guidance…_

that binds together the world

_A boy with his determination…_

and if you can fashion the weft after your own desires

_A boy with a human heart and a demon's mind…_

you can shape the world

_Lady Chance had given him an interesting toy indeed._


	8. Rude awakening

Mornings – the atrocious purgatory between bliss sleep and waking, unless you have a free period. As it were, Shiro did.

Shiro was very good at sleeping, as many teenage boys are, and he enjoyed mornings like this one to an almost immoral degree. The duvet was kicked off just enough to allow for that delicate balance between warmth and cool to be optimal, his body was sprawled in just the right position, and he'd found that perfect spot on the pillow that wrapped his head in soft, fuzzy clouds. If not for the darker clouds inside his head, it would have been heaven.

There's a grey zone between sleeping and waking, and several between feeling and not feeling. Mephisto was a jerk… smart and funny and a complete jerk… with an annoying habit of being right… True; if you really are prepared to work your ass off to achieve something, you will most likely succeed.

Shiro heaved a sigh into his pillow as loose scenes from his endeavours drifted into each other across the lines of dream and memory. There was a grey zone somewhere between closing his heart entirely and closing it just enough to protect himself, and he would find that grey zone… if he ever wanted to function like a normal human being again… he would show that conceited demon…

Shiro had come to understand Sen in ways he wished he never had. That chilling, empty face of hers mirrored the control she exercised over her emotions, same thing he was learning to do… same still mask of unfeeling that he had to wear every day…

Midori… god, why was she gay… bouncy and cheerful as usual around him, just like she'd promised… and no matter how deep he sank into emotionlessness, that hurt more than anything. His choice, his consequences; not hers…

Still… hanging with them was better than being around Shizuku and Ryuuji. Ryuuji, poor fuck… He should support him, somehow, but words always died halfway out of his mouth. And made things even more awkward between them. Shizuku noticed, of course. He noticed everything. He was a little like a fighting dog, not letting go of what he'd bitten into…

Shiro smiled giddily at the thought of Shizuku as a dog. He should be a shepherd of some sort, wandering in the wilds… larger than Mephisto, anyway…

Mephisto…

Shiro turned his mellow body over to face the wall instead of the intrusive rays of the sun that barged in through the window, and marinated himself in comfortable snoozing. It was a jolly hell, really. Inside the Academy, the worried glances from classmates, and the silence and pretending that gnawed his patience thin as spider web: outside the Academy, a host of "suitors" trying to snatch his body given even half an opportunity.

It was the most splendid irony, that there was one place where he didn't have to worry about either… Shiro reminded himself, with no hope of remembering it when he woke properly, to put the lighter in his blazer pocket next time he did his homework in Mephisto's office: bloody old goat had made a habit of poofing it away if he kept it in the usual trouser pocket. " _That 'brick on legs' you're sitting on happens to be antique, and the stench of cigarette smoke will never go out of the cushions._ " Shiro smiled behind closed eyes, recalling how the demon's barely visible eyebrows spiked downward like a set of inruns for ski jumping…

Such a splendid irony… that the one who'd gotten him into this mess was the only one he could be himself around…

…what if…

…he could also get him out of the mess…?

Shiro's sleepy thoughts wrapped around the idea that floated up from his subconscious and turned it over, like a monkey examining a man-made object it has no idea how to use. It wasn't half bad, though… Shouldn't be impossible to talk Mephisto into that, if he put his words right… " _Take the gamble; else you won't know if the boat sinks or floats, will you?_ " He could hear him perfectly… " _You really should invest in a pyjamas, my friend._ " Odd thing for him to say, though… had he really said that...? " _Yare yare, Sleeping Beauty out like a candle…_ " Even more… odd.

Shiro scowled and forced one eye open a sliver.

Next thing he knew, the back of his head hit the wall, and his heart was hammering his Adam's apple to mush. He had no actual idea what he'd done, only that the faintly glowing green eyes had been _too close_.

"Good reflexes", Mephisto observed approvingly. He was still leaning over the bed, and eyed the knifepoint aimed at his face with an air of calm surprise. "Sharing your bed must be a very interesting experience."

What was- why was he- when did…?

"Wanna do me here?"

...Shiro's body might be awake, but his brain wasn't _._

"I was only half awake, you idiot!" Shiro's sputtering met with hysterical laughter, and Mephisto's weight collapsed on his legs. "'What do you want with me?' and 'What are you doing here?' – _that's_ what I meant to say! I just said it at the same time!" Glorious start on this day, good work: what was that he'd promised himself again? Never to speak when he was tired? "Wipe that grin off your face, you pervert! I wasn't awake! I didn't know what I was saying!"

"Ahahahahhaaahihihaheheheee~! Ahah-haaah, haaah…" Mephisto's shoulders still trembled with laughter as he wiped tears from his eyes. "Oh, your spirit is there whenever the mind is not, dear Sigmund, ahahahaaah…"

Shiro was not in the least interested in who Sigmund was, but rather interested indeed in why he had a giggling demon collapsed on his duvet.

"What are you doing in my bed?" he demanded, as he folded his switchblade together and tried to will his flustered face cool.

"What am _I_ doing in your bed?" Mephisto propped himself up on his elbow, showing no intention whatsoever to leave the bed. "Shiro, Shiro, you really should think before you open your mouth. The question is 'what are _you_ doing in your bed?' Don't you know what day it is?"

Shiro's startled heart skipped a beat, but he kept emotion from reaching his face. No, Mephisto couldn't know that, there was no way he could-

"Let's see~" Mephisto clicked open a golden pocket-watch from within his uniform. "You have three minutes and twenty-nine seconds to get dressed and pack." He closed the watch with a crisp click. "Anything else you might want to do – or want me to do – will have to wait until we have embarked the car." The grin on his lips obliterating any subtlety attempted, and he rose to leave the room.

"You perverted old- Oi, stop, just what-" Nope: Shiro missed grabbing the hem of the white cape and flailed face-first onto the floor. Wonderful. His body was no more awake than his brain was.

"That's three minutes and twenty-one seconds", Mephisto smiled as he courteously plucked Shiro's glasses from the desk, unfolded them, and bent down to put them on Shiro's nose. "I do say, you've gained some muscle since last time I saw you in this state of undress."

Shiro ignored the comment and focused on the main question:

"What am I packing for?"

"What a question! The joint meeting with the Futotsuki clan, of course!"


	9. Fumbling for grey zones

Their ride was one fancy car. It didn't hold a candle to Mephisto's private one, but it did on the other hand look more professional. More "exorcistic". It was sleek and black, with tinted windows, and it had a separating wall between the front seats and the back seats. And it smelled faintly of mint and expensive after-shave.

"Hey, I was thinking…" Shiro had braided his fingers together behind his head, slouching comfortably in the large seat. "Basically everyone I know has figured out that we have a connection. Denying it just makes it look like we're trying to hide something." He glanced over at the only other occupant in the car, who sat a lot more… correct… than he did. _Daintily_ was probably a better word for the straight back and the effeminately crossed legs. "Isn't it about time to go official? Say that we know each other, make it seem less suspicious and more like ordinary friendship?"

"Ordinary?" Green eyes looked up from the latest issue of _Shoujo Friend_. "Your concept of ordinary might be a little askew, but I can assure you that most would not think of friendship between a human and a demon as anywhere near ordinary."

"Someone's gotta be first." Shiro shrugged against the leather covering. "You were the first demon to hold a position within the Order; why not be the first to have a human friend?"

"That took a lot of effort, mind you. A seed will not grow if sown in too harsh conditions." Then... Mephisto did that thing again; thought so fast that the reflections flitted over his eyes like a flock of crows at dusk fall. Shiro could only guess at what conclusion he reached, but when the demon spoke again his tone was still far off in thought: "But perhaps conditions are just right… We shall allow the first meeting to pass, and, if the climate is favourable, it might be time to sow a seed that will move the world yet another step away from the fears and phantasms of the Middle Ages." Mephisto returned to his reading, but left one final comment for him: "Be aware, you take a gamble still. Such an announcement might worsen relations with your classmates rather than solve the tension."

"Or it might not." Shiro lowered his hands again and fiddled restlessly with an unlit cigarette. " _Saw through that straight away, did he…?_ " he pondered, unable to feel properly surprised. " _Even when I close my heart off. Not that it was that hard to figure out, and I did leave a small crack open… still…_ " His brow furrowed, and his eyes travelled idly over the forested landscape outside the tinted window. " _The imprint is his: what if-_ "

"Sorry…?" He turned his attention back to the inside of the car.

"How did we meet?" Mephisto repeated in matter-of-factly tones, still reading his manga.

"What? I broke into your office and got a Naberius through the barrier."

"Yes, and that would make a charming story when people wonder how this peculiar friendship came to be."

"Oh. Right, now I get it." Hadn't thought about it, but they would need a more legally acceptable explanation… preferably one that actually sounded credible… "We could've met at the game arcade."

"Unfortunately, no."

"What's wrong with that?"

"I've been banned from the premises since 1973", he said and turned another page.

"You, banned?" Now that was a story he _had_ to hear. "For what? Sexual harassment?"

"What do you think of me?" he snorted and shot him an indignant glare. "I was accused of feeding the machine fake coins; I couldn't very well say that I was using magic to run as many games of _Space Race_ as I wanted."

…yeah, Shiro could see that happen.

"You stingy old bat…" he grinned, shoulders trembling with laughter. "How about we met at the race tracks, then?"

At this, Mephisto gave him a quizzical sideways glance.

"Aren't you a minor…?"

"Ah, forgot that." That technicality didn't stop him form betting in horse races, but it wouldn't make a very good official story. "Um…" What other places did he frequent that Mephisto might also visit…? "Do you go to the night market?"

"Not for many years now. We could have met at a bookshop?"

"Uh, no. I don't usually read… that stuff." He made a half-hearted gesture at the new chapters of _Haikara-san ga Touru_ that Mephisto was engrossed in. " _Berusayu no Bara_ was the first manga series I ever read, actually. I've never even been to a bookshop: you're my private library, sort of…" Mephisto gazed at him with a look that was both aghast and astounded. "How about the cinema?" …Shiro almost punched himself. " _What am I thinking? I only go to the cinema on dates._ "

"Impossible: I buy all the tickets for the show when I go to the cinema."

...yes, Mephisto was good at contradictive behaviors, but that just didn't add up. At all.

"You won't pay fifty yen to play the arcades, but you pay to have a whole movie theatre to yourself…?"

"I prefer watching my films in comfort, and that was simply not had in any other way. There would always be some visitor complaining about my height, so I was forced to sit at the far back of the theatre. And there was no way I could bend space for my legs without anyone noticing. You people are so short, it's incredible. I had the railway to the Academy custom built after I rode the Tokyo Touden and couldn't even stand straight."

"Snrrrrkkukukuku…" Shiro could vividly picture how, at the cinema, the shadow of Mephisto's curl bobbed at the centre of the projection screen, and how it vibrated in annoyance on a tram where he could neither stand straight up or fit himself into the small seats. It was a thing of joy. "Hearing of your tremendous hardships really warms my heart, you know…"

* * *

The exchange deteriorated to be less and less about likely connection points, and more and more a game of suggesting the most far-fetched places in which they could have met, each from their own list of references.

"We could have met at the Tokyo Takarazuka Theatre", Mephisto proposed.

"…seriously? You even want your women to look like men?"

"No, you monkey", he snorted, and launched into one of those peculiar, theatrical monologues that led Shiro to suspect that the Mephistopheles in the old operas were based on a real-life reference: "A woman should have the movements of a gentle breeze in cherry branches, the looks of a nymph risen from dreams unspoken, and the song of the sirens burning in her veins~" It made it all the more funny that Mephisto gestured like a Kabuki actor when he described his ideal woman. "The Takarazuka troupes accept only the most beautiful, most promising actresses in the country: the entertainment in their performances is twofold."

"Amen to that. And I was there because…" He didn't want to take the obvious option and say he'd been dating one of the actresses. Something more creative. Something more... "I was part of the catering crew that supplied food in the pause", he concluded. "I did have a catering job for a short time, you know. Until they decided to adopt a no-smoking policy for everybody that handled food."

"I suppose I met you after finding a cigarette butt in the bouffet and having a word with your employer." Mephisto raised his eyebrows and flipped another page in his magazine.

"Oi, that's how much faith you have in me? What actually happened was that they didn't like that I sneaked little bits to taste from the dishes. The no-smoking-employees thing was just something they made up to have reason enough to fire me." Shiro gave Mephisto a sideways look that was sheepish and impish at the same time. "After _that_ they found cigarettes in the bouffet." He stretched and took a peek out the window. They had been driving for quite a while now. The road had begun meandering and gain altitude in a landscape that to his city eyes looked wild and exciting. "I couldn't afford a ticket to Takarazuka in real life, otherwise that story would've actually worked. My turn…" He folded his hands behind his head and stared hard at the ceiling. What was the unlikeliest place you'd ever find Mephisto…? "Okay, okay, how about this: we met at the abandoned military storage sheds where the motorcycle gangs meet."

"What is it that makes all human boys want to increase their odds of a premature death?" Mephisto groaned. "Right, right: I was there…" He fingered the chain to his exorcist badge contemplatively.

"Because someone accidentally summoned you", Shiro suggested with a huge grin. The image of a befuddled demon clown randomly poofing into existence among the bikers was just gorgeous - especially if Mephisto happened to be sleeping or something. Oh god yes. A demon hugging a unicorn plushie, hell he would probably not even wake up.

"It would take one exceptionally gifted human to accidentally summon me", Mephisto chortled. "The only reason I could possibly find myself at such a location is because I'd sensed unusual demonic activity. Not unlikely, given the clientele in such gangs." His gaze turned back to Shiro. "I probably met you when you almost ran me over."

"Might've tried, if I'd had a bike", Shiro admitted, snickering at the idea. "I was never really part of the gang, just hung around for the girls. Man, biker girls…! Not exactly gentle breezes in cherries", he grinned wolfishly, "but their fruits are sweet and bountiful." He rubbed the meagre stubble of beard on his chin. Hadn't had time to shave before they left, but the razor was packed with the rest of his things in the duffel on the car floor. "I was just fifteen or something back then; way too short and scrawny to ride a bike. Couldn't afford one, either. Now maybe I could do it, if I had the money." He chortled at the remembered sounds and scents that tickled recollection. "And if I hadn't stolen one of the bikers' girlfriend: wrong way to gain notoriety in those circles. I was lucky he got done in by the yakuza before he hunted me down. The girl was worth it, though." He whistled, indicating with his hands exactly what kind of fruits one could expect from a biker's chick. "Though, in retrospect, I suppose not. It could've ended really bad."

"Badly", Mephisto corrected.

"You and Shizu-san…" He didn't really like it, how his thoughts recoiled from the topic when it brushed past. "It's amazing I'm still alive, with all the stupid things I've done."

"Indeed." The demon chuckled and turned a page. "I get a prickling feeling that I've accidentally done a good deed in getting you into exorcist cram school."

"Must feel horrible."

"You can't even imagine."

"Your dad would be ashamed of you."

"If he could feel shame, yes."

"Seriously, though…" It was so stupid, but he was so curious… He didn't want to pry, and yet he'd itched to ask ever since he found out who Mephisto was. "What's it like to have a dad like him?"

To his surprise, the smile on the demon's lips only grew wider.

"Of all the questions, you pick that one? Wondering why I came to Assiah, why I joined the Order, why I hide my true identity – and that is the first question that comes to your lips?" He turned a page with a merry chuckle. "It's like outpacing thought."

"What?" Shiro had never been the kind to spend hours pondering Zen riddles, and he was at a complete loss when faced with this one. "Yeah, smile a little wider; I'm not gonna ask you to explain so you can make fun of me for being a monkey." But how do you outpace a thought? What did that even mean…? "If you don't wanna answer just say so."

"I did answer: it's not my problem if you don't understand it~"

So childish, that son of a…! No, don't rise to the taunt. Mephisto called him stupid? He could do stupid…

"I understand it", he claimed with a huff, measuring the amount of annoyance he let show. "You can't outpace thought 'cause it's too fast, but I can't see how your dad being fast is any answer to the question." It sounded like his usual piqued tone, hopefully… and just the right degree of impertinent. "And it's obvious that he's more powerful, too, so you can't overcome him: a kid could figure that out, so it's no answer at all." And now: a Bright Idea… Shiro dropped Impertinent Annoyance and dressed his face in Curious Surprise. "Oh, I see… Satan doesn't really exist, does he? He's a thought, 'the darkness in the human heart', so he's not an actual person but an idea; an idea fuelled by so many people it's gained shape and consciousness, like-"

The magazine was flattened onto the white-uniformed lap: Mephisto had had enough.

"I can't fathom how you can be so unbelievably-" _Click_. Yes: to Shiro, it was almost audible when thoughts clicked in Mephisto's head. "Not stupid", he amended at the end of the sentence, taking Shiro in with a gaze that saw more than human eyes did. "Only making yourself out to be, to rile me into explaining." Mephisto grinned appreciatively. "How devious of you."

Shiro raised his hands slightly in surrender.

"Worth a try", he smiled. "Annoys the hell out of you, too, so it wasn't an entirely wasted effort."

"Indeed." He picked up his magazine again and pulled a face like one smelling something foul. "There is nothing worse than stupid people: exasperating, and completely useless."

"Aren't stupid people easier for demons to mislead?" Shiro inquired, surprised at the statement. "Not that hard to persuade, or am I entirely on the wrong track?"

"A prerequisite for manipulation is that there is something to manipulate", Mephisto said with a meaningful glance. "Manoeuvring a human of average intellect requires choice words and subtle persuasion; manoeuvring an imbecile requires a crowbar. And more patience than any demon has."

"I think you've got pretty good patience", Shiro chuckled at the demon's choice of words. "Haven't seen any crowbar yet." At least he wasn't an idiot, then. Just good at acting like one. Too good, some would say… "You've already listed the questions for me, so I'll stop beating around the bush: why did you join the enemy's side? And no goddamn koan."

"Enemies one can choose, but not family." Mephisto put his hand to his chest in a humble nod-bow. "Though born in Gehenna, my heart beats for Assiah and the human race, and all the wonders it invents on its quest for the stars~ This world has been my home for ages, a lovely and beautiful such: I merely do my part to keep it that way." He returned the gloved fingers to the pages of _Shoujo Friend_. "My father covets Assiah as much as I do, but not for the sake of humanity. What he wants to destroy, I wish to protect: that's why I joined the Order."

How grand. Words that were exactly what one could expect from Mephisto, but something between the chiming lines was jarringly off-key. Mephisto could _not_ be that altruistically philanthropic. If it was truth that sounded like a lie, or a lie that sounded true… A mix of both, probably. It could be true, for all he knew, but Mephisto had a tongue of silver. And he was Satan's son.

"And your dad just let you waltz off to Assiah to work for the exorcists? I somehow find that hard to believe."

"Choice words, Shiro~" he smiled in that supremely self-satisfied way that only he could. "I left under the pretence of being a good son and intending to spread chaos in the world: keep up that pretence, and I can do as I please. If I say I join the Order to erode it from within there is no way for father to monitor me without blowing my cover, and thus he can't know what I'm actually doing." The paged rustled softly under his fingers. "I've always thought it a splendid irony that his boundless power is exactly what makes the boundaries of Assiah impossible for him to transcend."

That… _that_ , Shiro's gut told him, was closer to the truth: because if Satan couldn't enter Assiah, Mephisto would be the biggest fish in the pond. And that… would suit his grand ego just fine.

Still, so many loopholes and question marks to twist lies into truth, and vice versa… a maze worse than das Labyrint des Limbus…

"Well, good job and welcome to Assiah. Going back to business, our best shot is probably meeting at school", Shiro mused aloud, deciding that mulling over the replies he'd gotten was better than pushing the matter and get his brain twisted into a knot.

"Maybe you just ran through the corridors, late for class, and collided with me when you turned a corner? I helped you gather up your papers and we started talking-"

"That sounds like a scene out of shoujo manga", Shiro observed in flat tones.

"What's wrong with that?" Mephisto had an incredibly good Innocent Face considering who he was.

"A million things, but mostly that it sounds like the kind of meeting that will end with dressing up in yukatas and holding hands while watching fireworks from a secluded viewpoint." Girls somehow found that very romantic. He had no idea why.

"Doesn't sound all that different from the end you had in mind just this morning~" …and in the blink of an eye, innocence was the last word you'd associate with that face.

"Yeah, that end…" Shiro rubbed his eyes with a groan. "Can we just agree that when I'm tired, you don't listen to a single word I say…?"

* * *

Being around Mephisto… He would never admit it out loud, but… it was sort of relaxing. He could even leave a small crack open to his heart, and it worked fine: Mephisto's presence seemed to keep most demons at a respectful distance.

Shiro refused to believe it was the invisible mark of the imprint in his heart. He was no more compatible with Mephisto than he was with anyone else. Sure, they had things in common, but they had even more differences. No, it wasn't magic or darkness that made him feel at ease around Satan's eldest. It was something stronger.

Secrets divide, but they can also bond. When you share something you would never share with anyone else, you place part of yourself in another's hands: an act of trust and respect that creates bonds stronger than steel or stone. And acceptance… to be accepted for what you are and what you've done, to have that respect and trust returned to you… that forges bonds solid.

None of his classmates would ever look at him again if they knew what he had done; no human would.

But a demon…

Mephisto knew what he had done, and he didn't bat an eye at the blood on Shiro's hands. He treated him the same as always, something Shiro had never expected he would be so grateful for; and unlike Midori's painted smile, Mephisto's was real. Full of fangs and wider than sanity and conscience would allow, yes, but real. The only real smile Shiro had seen in weeks.

Maybe he would never feel human around humans again; but with Mephisto, he did. He did, because it's only in contrast with bright light that you notice how dark the shadows are: and it's only in contrast with pitch black that you can perceive grey tones in shadow.

Like a moth unto flame…

He knew why moths fly to flame.

That flickering promise of warmth that lights the darkness, even if the vow of death comes with it… When the world turns its back on you, and every light is as cold and distant as the stars, the flame of hell still offers warmth.

Shiro pushed the chilling thought out of his mind with an even colder one: he'd been no saint to begin with. With or without Mephisto's interference, the path he'd paved for himself didn't lead skywards – and if you're going to hell, you might as well enjoy the ride. If Mephisto could make him forget the demons breathing down his neck, and his fate beyond the grave – even for just a moment –, then he didn't care if the bond between their hearts-

…eww.

The bond they had forged when he had lent his body to-

Uh, no.

The bond that had formed when he'd had Mephisto inside-

 _No_.

"You're making strange faces, Shiro", Mephisto observed with a distrustful scowl. "Are you going to be carsick?"

"If I get sick, it's not from the car", he groaned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:**
> 
> **Koan** – Zen riddle, a problem designed to provoke deep thought and measure a student's progress.
> 
> The "Zen riddle" is a small snippet from… (what, there's no translation?) …uh, _Tors färd till Utgårdaloke_. It's part of the Prose Edda written on Iceland in the 13th century; a part where Tor, Loke, and Tjalve are challenged by giants to prove their worth. Loke's challenge is to eat faster than Loge, but that didn't fit my intentions very well, so I used Tjalve's challenge: sprinting faster than Huge.
> 
> Those "tests" are laced with magic, of course. No matter how fast Loke eats, he can't eat faster (or more completely) than Loge, who is fire disguised as a man, and whose name means Flame. No matter how fast Tjalve runs, he can't outrun Huge, whose name means Thought.


	10. Silver tongue

It was the kind of place that doesn't exist in reality. On postcards, yes, but not in reality. Real grass isn't that green, and real sky can't be that viciously blue. The lush valley cradled the community as one would a newborn, and parted its sloping walls like drawn curtains to reveal a landscape of wild forests and mountains tinted blue by heavy mist.

"Ah, what a beautiful day!" Mephisto looked like he would embrace the whole scenery in his outstretched arms. "A day for diplomacy to vanquish enmity and tie the bonds of brotherhood across the dividing chasms of ideals! Don't you agree, Shiro? …oh, marvellous. Clean, fresh mountain air, and the first thing you do is pollute it with your cigarettes."

"Turn your sensitive nose some other direction, princess." Shiro drew a bliss breath, and felt his stomach settle. In the end, the winding mountain roads did get him carsick. "It's been thirteen hours since I last had a smoke – that's like thirteen hours without arcade games, books or TV for you."

"Completely irrelevant comparison", he frowned, slinging his pink umbrella over his shoulder. Mephisto did fit the environment, sort of: real umbrellas weren't that pink.

"Oh yeah?" Shiro grinned and retrieved his duffel from the car. "Let's bet on that, shall we? See who can hold out longer: you without entertainment, or me without smokes."

Mephisto turned the umbrella slowly between his fingers, measuring him with a calculating gaze.

"If I win, you quit smoking."

"Really bugs ya, does it?" Shiro smiled and trailed the winding smoke with his eyes. "And if I win…" Should he make him give up gaming, books and TV? That was just too cruel… "You have to wear normal clothes for a week." Seeing the demon's perplexed mien, he snickered. "Need me to tell you what's normal…?" He gestured at himself. "Shirt, long trousers, and a suit jacket. Single colour. No pinks or purples." And with a devilish grin, he yanked playfully at Mephisto's cravat. "And a plain, black tie. No polka-dots."

Mephisto's eyes narrowed, and he tugged his beloved cravat back in place.

"When we return to the Academy, the bet is on."

"Sure is."

* * *

The Futotsuki clan's village was too small to house any greater number of visitors, and it lay in rather wild terrain: for those reasons, and somebody's opinion of neutrality, a nearby scenic tourist resort had been selected for the meeting instead. The resort wasn't much larger than the village, in actuality, but it had two ryokan – one on each slope of the small valley – that would serve as lodgings.

Shiro drew a deep breath of warm summer air and had to admit that yes, it tasted much better than in the city. When Mephisto wasn't looking, he loosened the tie and undid the top button of his shirt. The demon had demanded that he wear the full uniform for the occasion, despite the temperature. Something about looking proper. Well, screw looking proper: Mother Nature dictated the terms for dress code, and today the code was "not more than necessary".

They were greeted by a traditionally clad elderly man surrounded by the air of ease that comes with age and experience. He didn't seem at all fazed by the purple hair or the pointy ears it betrayed. Then again, he might not be able to see demons.

"Welcome to our village", he said in a creaky voice, bowing with an equally creaky back. "I am Honda Shinobu, and I preside over the logistics for this event. We have two ryokan, as I'm sure you can see-" Shinobu cut himself short and blinked a couple of times at Shiro. "A bit warm, young man? Why, it certainly is. Such a beautiful day, no? Please, we can talk in the entrance hall of Kiridani Ryokan where the air conditioning is running. Odds are at least one of you is booked to stay there."

Shiro ignored Mephisto's less-than-pleased glares and followed. His carsickness dissipated quickly as the old man led them down the gravel road to the ryokan closest by. It was a beautiful, old-fashioned construction, three stories high, with artfully cut shrubs lining the paved walkway. The foyer was small, but cool: something others, too, had taken advantage of. There were uniformed men and women chattering in different tongues in different corners, some of them Western and some Japanese, and boisterous kids running around on the marble tiles and playing exorcists and demons: at least Shiro assumed so, since a blonde girl who caught her little brother promptly set to declaim some loud gibberish and crossing herself.

At the reception counter, they were asked for their names.

"Sir Pheles, Mephisto."

"Fujimoto Shiro."

The receptionist was very cute, which made Shiro pay enough attention to her face to notice the brief, odd look she quickly hid.

Minutes later, he understood why.

"You did _what_ …?"

Shiro was okay with Mephisto's preferences. He was okay with anything, as long as it didn't involve him. Didn't that sound like a simple and handy differentiation…? No. Because regardless who was on his menu and who wasn't, Mephisto was an incurable prankster and a pathological tease.

"I don't believe it! Of all the things you could…! You wrote me in on the guest list as your _wife_?!"

"Say it a little louder, I don't think the Venetian ambassador's interpreter caught it all", Mephisto replied pleasantly. They had assumed seats in the far corner, which had become vacant after one diplomat had said goodbye to his wife and kids and left to check in at the other ryokan. "I wrote you in as attaché, and the accommodation is divided into 'diplomatic envoys' and 'attachés'; the latter of which in this case means spouses and families."

The most devious ability in demons is not magic, nor strength or cruelty or claws: it is their figurative silver tongues. That's how they bend and twist reality to have exactly the shape that suits them.

"That's the whole problem: the only ones staying here are their families. I'll stand out like a sore thumb, and you know what the diplomat wives will do?" he seethed, feeling a vein bulge ominously at his temple. "They will sit around the playground, watch their little runts tumble in the dirt, and gossip about the Japanese Branch Director's _male_ _concubine_!"

"You are most welcome to share my room in the diplomats' building, if you believe that would generate less gossip." Mephisto's smile was so earnestly amicable that a person who didn't know him would believe that he really meant to help. Shiro did know him, and his willingness to help was as rudimentary as his drawing skills. "I don't believe I will make much use of it anyway", he mused aloud, twirling the umbrella slowly with its tip resting on the floor. "Futotsuki territory has always been a haven for demons, and this time of year there are plenty of night-time festivities in the woods. It would be a nice change, after long hours in hard chairs…"

Night-time festivities: Mephisto had a silver tongue indeed. Shiro masked his laughter with a disgruntled huff. Oh, he could imagine what 'night-time festivities' meant: plenty of woodcut illustrations of that in old witch-hunting manuals.

"Can take the demon out of hell, but can't take hell out of the demon?" he chuckled, tipping his lighter back and forth in his fingers. "What a splendid hypocrite you are – and right under the noses of the Vatican representatives."

"Hypocrite? Hardly~ True to my love for Assiah and true to my nature as a demon: where, do tell, can you glean hypocrisy in that?" he asked in lilting tones. "When Assiah offers her treasures in such unconditioned abundance, how can anyone resist to sample her riches? Without tasting life in all its forms and varieties, how can anyone claim to be truly alive? No, hypocrisy belongs to the humans who pretend they don't hear the sweet song of the flesh, and who scorn its promises of rapture behind masks of morality." The smile on his face grew wider, like a cat stretching in the sun, and his voice dropped a half tone: "And while the holy preach truth to human ears, demons whisper honesty to their hearts."

Though he tried to deny it, the statement grew icicles along Shiro's spine. What he said was true, and truth… has power. _Never listen to a demon's deceptive words_ is the most basic rule of exorcism: the most important rule of exorcism. Kids fifteen years old learnt it. Every exorcist in True Cross Order knew it. And yet, at the heart of that Order, one demon's words were allowed access to the ears of exorcists and Grigori and Pope.

A demon who had sworn himself to the human side.

A demon who was the Devil's flesh and blood.

A demon so exceptionally skilled with words that he had negotiated a contract with the Pope himself.

 _Never listen to a demon's deceptive words_.

Dredged from the depths of Shiro's consciousness by the chill, Midori's words added to his discomfort: 'A demon who can fool the Pope is a good liar…'

" _Good with twisting words, yeah: but a liar…? He does protect Assiah from Satan…_ "

'…and a bad thing to have around.'

" _He_ has _the capacity to crush the Order, won't deny that, but… he could have done that long ago, if that's what he wanted. Tch, stuck between one demon's words and another's._ " He smiled darkly at himself. Yeah, some exorcist _he_ was. He tapped his lighter thoughtfully against his knee, not sure what to think. Mephisto was good with words, alright, but there were parts of what he'd just said that didn't add up. "Fancy words aside: wouldn't you go to Court for sinful and unnatural conduct if you 'sampled' all varieties of Assiah's riches?"

No, the impish look on his face said.

"Indeed, some of her fruits are forbidden me, but no rule without exception: the Vatican concerns itself with human virtue, not with demons' lack of such~" he said with a confident smirk, winking. "As long as I pick fruit from the right tree, and don't involve poor humans in debauchery, no Pope or priest will slap my fingers."

No, he wouldn't go to Court: and if he did, he would waltz out of there with the same smug, confident look as he had waltzed in. Such was the power of a demon's tongue.

* * *

Shiro stayed with the wives and the children, silently hoping that if he didn't act as if that was weird they wouldn't think it was. The hotel room he was given was nice. As in _really_ nice. The tatami mats rustled softly under his bare feet, and there was even a small wooden table with everything needed for brewing tea. He pinched the futon in the closet and found it delightfully soft, and the view beyond the shoji doors was everything you could wish for – he even had a balcony!

Shiro didn't bother with hanging his clothes in the wardrobe, or unpacking anything except his razor and his toothbrush. It was only an overnight stay – if the meeting could reach a quick conclusion, at least. He assumed that if they kept disagreeing they would keep negotiating until they did agree on something, but he had no actual idea of how these things worked. Or how he was supposed to contribute.

" _Role-model, eh?_ " He smiled at the bathroom mirror and dabbed after-shave over his now smooth jaw line. " _We're hypocrites both, my friend._ "

When Shiro put his razor back in the duffel, he was surprised to notice the barrel of his gun sticking out under the spare underwear. Had he really packed that, for a diplomatic meeting…? Scowling and thinking back on the morning didn't help any; he'd been too tired and stressed and disarranged to really remember what he'd done. Apparently, training had hardwired him into bringing along a weapon wherever he went.

* * *

Diplomacy is an art governed by many peculiar rules, but there was one that Shiro felt he could agree completely with: never make a decision on an empty stomach. And so, all the participants were treated to dine out in the open, with kaiseki made exclusively from ingredients produced in the valley. As is customary, the host and the highest ranking sat facing each other at the centre of the table, and ranks descended out towards the ends.

Shiro was seated at the far end; one step short of being placed among the kids in the nearby restaurant. It made him feel partially forgotten and left out of the actual negotiations, which suited him just fine since the air of importance and formality made him uncomfortable anyway. To his left sat a male exorcist he didn't know. In front of him…

"Long time no see, Bigmouth~" she grinned, seating herself in seiza position with her arms to her sides and knowing _full well_ what that did with her boobs. "Doin' well, eh? Must a' kicked some serious butt at exams ta get yeself a place 'ere."

"Oh, I'm doing well. I'm here as 'role-model', can you imagine?" he pulled a superficial smile, trying his best to keep his eyes on her face and his emotions thoroughly under control.

"Nah, I think ye're here fe' decoration", Kasumi jibed, mimicking a motion as if she trailed glasses strings from her temples.

"I like your decorations better", he said, letting his gaze drop for an instant in good company with a dirty smirk.

"Hoo~ someone hasn't been gettin' any in a while, eh? Attracting a different kind a' clientele wi' that finery, I'm guessin'~?"

And that… was why you never tried to battle Kasumi. No, he had been too busy to be "gettin' any": and if you counted a certain smug demon, he did attract a different kind of 'clientele'.

"I've been busy", he excused himself, thankful that she at least kept her voice low so that others might not hear. "Fancy meeting you here, though. Representing…?"

"The middle path", Kasumi said, smiling as she put her palms together, "of understanding an' respect. Spent some time with the Futotsukis, tried ta sow some seeds. Tanight we'll see if it did any good. An' how the 'ell are ye' a role-model…?"

"I'm turning out to be like the Futotsuki, basically." He could say it almost without effort: no cracks in the barrier, firm and solid as a rock wall. "Human, but have a good hand with demons." He nodded his head slightly towards the area of the table where important people sat. "Pheles requested that I tag along for that reason."

Kasumi's lips formed a quite inviting o-shape.

"The pendant ain't helping, then?"

" _Shizuku's sister alright…_ " He drew a stabilizing breath. "I'm not allowed to wear it. I need to temper my mind and become my own shield." He nodded at the centre of the table again. "His idea."

"That's harsh", she deadpanned.

"He's a demon."

"Yeah, no shit…" She leaned forward to catch a better view of Mephisto down the table, and in doing so offered Shiro a most pleasant view of her… decorations. "Any idea why 'e's instructing ye an' not a Futotsuki?"

"Futotsuki-sensei hasn't been at school for a month-"

"I know: 'e's sittin' over there at the clan's side o' the table. There are other members at the Academy." Shizuku's sister, down to the way her eyes lost their mischievous glitter and went black and hard when she meant business. "Why would 'e take special interest in you?"

"Okay, look…" He was not about to have another fight. " _Not when there's so many pines in the woods_ ", he smiled despite himself. "Shizu-san and I haven't been on speaking terms for a while. We're locked at stalemate: he wants me to say what's 'off' about me, and I have nothing to tell him, so he's pissed. And honestly, it's so stupid it's unbelievable." Here goes: sink or swim… "He's worried that I'm spending so much time with Pheles. And Pheles takes special interest in me 'cause he's my friend. I _have_ issues with demons." He met her eyes briefly, hoping to see them a little more brown than black. "And he wants to help me become an exorcist that can fend for himself without pendants; his methods are a little harsh at times, but he means well."

Kasumi blinked. Twice. Thrice. Opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

"Friend…? Shiro-kun, demons don't-" She halted her tongue, and a faint wrinkle nestled between her eyebrows. The tiny pixie of a woman looked him up and down pensively. "Role-model…" she repeated slowly to herself. "That's what it is…? A bond between demon an' human without sealing or binding?" The wrinkle deepened into a scowl, and there was no impish little pixie left in her. "Ye're walkin' thin ice there. The ways o' the Futotsuki are risky at best, but what yer doin' is downright crazy. _Friend_ …?"

"Someone's gotta be first", he said, hope wound so tight around his nervous heart he could barely breathe. "Believe it or not, but we get along well." He softened his features and poured some humour into what he hoped was a convincing speech: "Unless you count the smoking: he takes my lighter away every time I visit his office or mansion."

"An' what does 'e make ye do…?" she asked tentatively. Still making up her mind, still unsure. "Fe' training, and fe' other stuff. What does 'e say te you?"

"He makes me block demons out by will instead of by charms." This might actually work, this might actually work…! "And he gives me reading recommendations, 'cause he thinks I'm an uneducated monkey. We share jokes, he corrects my grammar – Shizu-san always did that, too – and we talk about all sorts of things." He tried another offensive towards humour: "Ladies, for one. He enjoys watching the Takarazuka Revue, apparently. He can recite whole scenes from _Berusayu no Bara_ by heart – in Japanese _and_ French."

Kasumi hung onto his every word, lips slightly parted in a delicious look of concentration that made concentration on Shiro's part more difficult. And yet, the urges of his body were eerily powerless against the iron wall that enclosed his heart. As if the body wasn't part of him at all. As if anything he felt towards Kasumi was not part of him. The difference one crack in the barrier could make…

"Ye sound like friends", she said slowly. "That it's never happened before doesn't mean it's impossible, I s'pose…" A thin smile touched her lips. "If anyone can befriend a demon, it's a swaggering big-mouth like you. S'long s'ye keep ye wits about… ye gotta promise me ye break it off if 'e starts, ye know", she arced an eyebrow in Mephisto's direction, "acting demon. But as long as 'e does I guess it's fine. Heh, walkin' the middle path..." It was barely visible, but her smile stretched a liiiittle wider – and Shiro's breathing came a little easier. "Maybe ye're a role-model, maybe ye're an idiot." The mischievous spark flickered to life in her eyes. "Maybe ye'll show us an entirely different path ta walk." At the sound of a deep voice saying 'dozo', they both reached for their teacups and raised them in a welcoming toast. "Te you two little lovebirds", she snickered, and drank.

Being seated with Kasumi was a blessing. Never a dull moment with that mischievous tomboy; and Shiro could've sworn the exorcists on their respective sides scooted imperceptibly away from them as their conversation progressed. Kasumi was bold. Shameless. Impish.

Absolutely lovely.

During lunch, word reached them that unrest had broken out in parts of the Futotsuki territory, and that the meeting would have to be postponed until tomorrow when the last envoys could arrive. Kasumi formed part of the little team that would make the trip over there to help calm things down, saying she would see him again at the meeting. She had only to fetch her staff and she would be ready to go.

"I'll help ye talk Shizzy straight", she assured him when he rose - why did he rise? he wouldn't be going anywhere - and accompanied her to the foyer where the rest of the team was gathering. "I'll be headin' down that direction when the meeting's finished, so gimme a few days an' I'll be there."

"You could catch a ride with us", he suggested, and received that shrewd smile of hers. As if she knew something he didn't - like Midori.

"Ain't the pilgrim way, Shiro-kun. Ye walk ye' path with yer own feet, so ye know every puddle an' pebble along the way."

He had to give it a moment, but nodded at her words.

"You're so much like each other. Pilgrims that sound like scholars…"

"S' the puddles an' pebbles", she smiled, winked, and left through the door after the rest of the team.

* * *


	11. The not-date that sort of was?

Futotsuki-sensei had asked Shiro and Mephisto to walk with him after lunch and asked – oh had he asked! The conflict had aged the poor man, but he wanted to know everything that had happened at the Academy since he had left. His questions were directed as much to Mephisto as to Shiro, and while one answered the ones concerning the state of the school and the personnel, the other filled him in on the students' progress and pranks.

"She and Midori-chan are doing fine", Shiro replied, although Futotsuki-sensei had only asked how Sen was doing.

It wasn't something the old teacher had expected, that much was evident from his face. But he didn't seem to mind it.

"Oh? Well, you are a clever young man, Fujimoto-kun. It's no surprise that you have noticed my niece's affections."

Mephisto politely turned away to blow his nose. In May. With the warmth of the day still lingering in the afternoon sun. The unseasonal cold also seemed to have caused him some blockage in his throat; Shiro silently wished it would choke him.

"And how is the young Todo doing as teacher?"

"He is industrious."

"He's boring."

Futotsuki-sensei's countenance crinkled in merriment.

"Well, well; true both, I dare say. It takes passion to teach, and passion I'm afraid I haven't seen in that young man for years. He's a fine exorcist, though… I'm sorry to hear of the accident", he said in his deep, sombre voice. "Word reached us that demons had slipped through the barrier and that lives had been lost, but the details went missing on the way. Please, tell me everything that happened."

"A most sad and unexpected tragedy", Mephisto said softly, seemingly more attentive of the garden irises that held the same colour as the fodder of his cape. "A group of students wilfully dismantled wards in the barrier and fell victim to the demons that got through. Thankfully they were the only ones, plus one guard that tried to prevent them. As for why they did this, I'm afraid we will never know."

Smooth words, without any hint of hesitation or conscience behind… Under different circumstances, Shiro might have felt a twinge of guilt: but his heart was cold and indifferent to Mephisto's lies.

"So sad, so sad." The old teacher shook his head. "And now this. Brother disowning brother, mother and daughter at each other's throats… I hope you can resolve this at tomorrow's meeting, Sir Pheles. It breaks my heart to see my people like this. And you know that I…" Futotsuki-sensei's voice faltered, and his years wore heavy on his shoulders. "If it comes to fighting between the Order and the Futotsuki, I don't know which side to take. I beg of you, Sir Pheles; if it comes to that, please don't order me to oppose my own people."

"There is always two sides in a battle." Mephisto's interest now lay with the small shrine snuggled against the trunk of an ages-old ginkgo. "And there are times when belonging to neither might cost you more than choosing one. I will not ask you to fight, Itsuhito-san: but if you do fight, you fight for me."

"Yes… Yes; thank you. Thank you for your time, Sir Pheles. I will need my strength tomorrow, so I bid you a pleasant evening. And you, Fujimoto-kun." He bowed, showing how far up the grey had crept from his temples, and left them on the walkway where it made a respectful bend around the ginkgo, as if the tree's growth had slowly forced worshippers to alter their path.

"…any idea how things will go tomorrow?" Shiro probed, following as Mephisto kept trailing the path.

"Why, isn't it more exciting to wait and see~? I have a feeling that-" His ears twitched apprehensively, and the two men turned simultaneously to find that Futotsuki-sensei had turned around and followed them.

"Pardon me, Fujimoto-kun, my mind has been greatly occupied lately: Sen asked me to say happy birthday from her and Midori-chan", he said with a gentle smile.

Shiro managed not to close his eyes and groan, thanked Futotsuki-sensei, and asked him to pass his thanks to Sen and Midori.

"Today, is it?" Mephisto hummed. "Oya oya: happy bi-"

"Once is enough", Shiro cut off, shoving his hands back in his pockets after bidding his teacher goodbye.

"You don't want people to congratulate you on your birthday?"

"It's not that I _don't_ , it's... Whatever. No, I don't."

"What kind of person are you, who don't appreciate birthdays?" Mephisto sounded like this was not only impossible, but downright affronting. "Presents and games and sweets, merry times and celebration – what lacklustre mind doesn't find that enjoyable?"

"No, I like parties; I just don't like birthday parties." Rather, he didn't like his own birthday parties: several of them spent at an orphanage tend to dim the magic shimmer. "If you're gonna celebrate, at least celebrate something sensible. I mean, it's supposed to be some kind of achievement to be born? Or to grow older?"

"For you, that last one is quite the achievement."

"Pff…" Shiro huffed and smiled crookedly up at the darkening sky. "Oh well, you're right. And here I thought going away on business would keep people from noticing. Well, nothing out of the ordinary anyway. A stroll at the night market is my usual way of celebrating, and this ain't far from it."

"Oh~?" Shiro tensed at his tone; mostly because anything that made Mephisto happy usually did so at the expense of his own happiness. "I know the perfect thing for you, then~"

"Oi, what are you-"

Mephisto poofed them both away from the gravel path and into… a forest. An old, old forest, the kind where the trees have grown bitter and selfish and choke life from the forest floor with their heavy branches. Only things that thrive in darkness live there, among the shed life of leaves and needles: moss that licks the dew off gnarly roots, and lichens that bleed ashen eruptions on wood and rock. The air was pungent with the smell of moist soil, mingled with the smell of things that hadn't quite returned to being soil yet. Despite the warmth of the season, Shiro felt a chill slither down his spine. Forests weren't that quiet, not in May when birds should be singing like there's no tomorrow. Though surrounded by growing things, the forest around him didn't feel alive.

"Can't have you going like that…" Mephisto snapped his fingers again, and Shiro's school uniform disappeared in favour of a white yukata with pink cherry blossoms: Mephisto's uniform was replaced with a pale pink kimono with lavish peonies. "Hmm, no." He snapped his fingers again, and Shiro found himself in a black yukata with red obi and bright azaleas.

"Going like what to where? Where are we?"

"Too eye-catching." Mephisto snapped his fingers a third time, and Shiro was robed in an azure yukata with cranes. "Too cold nuances." A snap and a poof, and this time the yukata was pale yellow with a reddish pattern of koi.

...well, it effectively chased away the chill from Shiro's spine, at least. The dark atmosphere of the place felt less threatening when Mephisto's only concern was his attire.

"I said 'where are we?'" Shiro repeated.

"Clashes with your eyes." Poof, and his clothes were wine red, almost mauve, with golden chrysanthemum flowers. "Too flashy."

"Oi, are you even listening?"

"Of course not."

Of course not. Shiro surrendered. It was the only thing to do when Mephisto was absorbed in something; even something as silly as playing dress-up.

Shiro's clothes stopped changing once he'd gotten into a yukata in nuances fading from deep lavender to white, with white wisteria flowing below the obi: but Mephisto kept snapping his fingers. And looked more and more annoyed.

"What's taking you so long?" he asked, absentmindedly picking his ear with his little finger.

"That hair of yours", the demon grumbled and watched, again, how Shiro's hair reverted back to its amorphous state like a released spring. "It's simply not emendable."

Shiro chuckled and ran a hand through the unkempt haystack on his head.

"The hair that defeated the King of Time. How's that on your record?"

"It's not hair, it's a bird's nest", he said dryly, brushing his fingers over the greyish tips in a dismissive manner. "Your constant bleaching doesn't exactly improve the quality of it."

"Oh, and the guy who favours the colour scheme of an eggplant should give advice on hair-care?"

There was a moment's confused silence as Mephisto pieced together the message.

"…are you implying that would I dye my hair?" he asked with a face of utter disbelief.

Shiro raised his eyebrows at him.

"Are _you_ implying that _that_ is your natural hair colour?"

Mephisto's eyebrows rose, too: and settled in that disgruntled inrun formation over his drooping eyes.

"That you even doubt it is offensive – of course it is! There is no way one could look this dashing unless born to it", he declared, splaying his clawed fingers over the chest of the kimono.

Shiro failed to choke a bout of laughter. Actually, he didn't even try.

"Oh, of course, you're a natural purplette…!"

"I am", the demon maintained in offended tones. "Look at my claws: same proteins, same colour."

He didn't really care – Mephisto might have naturally purple-greenish hair, or he might not. What mattered was his abhorred look when Shiro explained the dark purple claws with nail varnish.

"What an utter and unbelievable monkey you are", he frowned. "Expecting you to behave is likely a guarantee for disappointment, so if you settle for staying out of trouble that will do. Don't put anything in your mouth unless absolutely certain what it is, don't go saying aloud that you are an exorcist; and don't let slip of your focus. This will be good exercise for you."

"Then maybe you can tell me where we're going?" Shiro tugged at the yukata, which was probably one of female cut since it showed more of his legs than he was used to or comfortable with.

"Hyakki Yagyou~!" Mephisto announced with a beaming smile and spread his arms like a magician about to present his next performance. "The demons' parade! It is of earthly wonders still the strangest, and thus in equal measure craved and cursed; whether from man- or demonkin thou rangest, you'll find a brew to slake your thirst~ Your heart's desire shall not, I pledge, evade thee, for every soul can have its wishes' worth, the night I can most proudly claim to emcee; the night when heaven high", he reached up and splayed his fingers as if to pluck down a star, "is hell on earth~" The hand descended with a flourish to rest at his abdomen, and with a devilish smirk he bowed the way they once did at European courts. "So let's be on our way~"

"…I'm not sure I can walk", Shiro confessed bluntly, following stiffly on his geta.

"Quite the expert on ruining moods, aren't you?" Mephisto sighed, and managed to convey an impressive amount of disdain just by Looking at him. "My my, like a newborn deer…"

"Well, sorry, I haven't walked in heels as much as you have", he snorted, carefully navigating across the treacherous roots – though inwardly, he grinned. " _Always a pleasure to ruin your moods, Princess._ " Still, if that was improvised verse, he had to admit that Mephisto did have a talent for- "…I'd rather trip and knock a tooth out, thank you very much", he said as the demon, in the spirit of a true gentleman, offered his arm for support.

* * *

Nestled securely like a secret whispered between lovers, the depression hid behind thick foliage of evergreens and lush maples, betrayed only by the drifting lantern lights. Once out in the open, Shiro realised it wasn't lanterns: it was onibi, thousands of them, swarming like fireflies in the dusk. And in the pale, rippling light bloomed a strange flower indeed.

It was the dilapidated skeleton of dead dreams: it was the tangled seed of miracles holding its breath. It was as though the bones of the earth had broken and pushed through her skin, coaxed out of her dark flesh to draw nourishment from the hopes and nightmares of the living. Of earthly wonders still the strangest…

The light of the onibi melted over pillars and spikes that impaled the sky in angles askew. The soil grew winding buildings on teetering legs, and three-way archways with no sense of direction. Above, the air hung low with the weight of a hundred dishes cooking, a thousand voices speaking, and demon fireballs that chased each other amongst the banners and flower vines. All around and everywhere, from every twisted nook and crevice, the steady light of lanterns trickled colourful shadows of bypasses onto the streets. The lanterns were the only ordinary thing Shiro could spot there: they looked terribly out of place.

It was just like the night market in True Cross Town on a bustling summer evening, and nothing like it at all. Nothing… at all…

Shiro liked night markets for the anonymity: for the tranquil feeling of being just another person in the crowd, comfortably surrounded by people who happily minded their own business and let him mind his. That… was not going to be the case at the demons' parade.

"Greetings and welcome, your highness."

"Welcome, your highness."

"Most honoured, your highness."

…it was like watching the waves of the ocean still their restless caravans. Horned heads, scaly heads, furry heads: like a rice field in the wind, they bent as demons of all shapes and kinds bowed deep before them. Conversation dropped to murmured greetings, and merry music from further away sung jarringly loud in the solemn atmosphere. Vendors left their stands to offer gifts, runners came from food carts to deliver treats, tumbling imps that chased each other underfoot came to a dead stop… and inwardly, Shiro squirmed. Formality had never been his cup of tea. He didn't like acting formal, and apparently he was just as uncomfortable with being acted formal towards; even if it wasn't actually him they were bowing to.

" _He must be used to this._ "

But as Shiro glanced at Mephisto, he was forced to take back his words. No, Mephisto wasn't used to this: he was born to this. Born and bred to be the Crown Prince of Gehenna; and here, amongst his own kind, everyone knew that. Here, he was royalty; and his flamboyant mannerisms looked perfectly normal.

" _Everything is relative, huh…_ "

Still, that it could be so _very_ different… Here, his clownish flourishes didn't look clownish, his ridiculous swagger didn't look ridiculous, and his stupid, self-important smirk didn't look stupid.

He looked like a king.

" _Wonder what they make of me, then? Doesn't it look strange for a demon like him to show up with a human?_ "

Oh, he got an explanation quick enough. All people of royal lineage have servants; and guess who got to be porter for the braided basket with the ever-increasing pile of… things. Most of the offerings looked like food, some of them looked like dried roots; some of them were odd, disc-like things that could've been biscuits and could've been thin clam shells in strange colours.

"What are these?" he asked as they strolled leisurely among the market rows and caused demons to stop and bow.

"Oh, I like those~" Mephisto plucked the shell-like object out of his hand and ate with a satisfied purr, dangling a skewer with caramelised plums in his other hand. "Very tasty. Not for humans, though."

There were a lot of things labelled "not for humans". There were a lot of things Shiro didn't want to have any deeper knowledge of anyway, but some things he really did want to try: like the games. They came upon a ball game in an open square, where the ground had been cleared and ringed in with bales of rice straw, much like you would do with a sumo wrestling ring. Rather than wrestling, however, it seemed to be a mix of grappling and capture-the-flag. The ring master was an impressive figure: a snow white kitsune with no less than seven tails. He stood on his hind legs, like a human, and was at least as tall as Mephisto. The demon was tossing a red ball, no larger than a honey dew melon, up and down in his clawed hand; tossing it behind his back, above his head; tossing it to the other side of the ring and dashing after it to catch it before it touched the ground. Another demon, one of the sickle-clawed kamaitachi, was darting after the fox, doing jumps and tackles in its attempts to snatch the red ball.

"So this is...? It's not actually his heart he's chucking around, right?"

"Goodness no. The game is still called Hoshi-no-Tama, but that is a regular temari ball." As Mephisto spoke, a smaller fox demon in the crowd called out 'time's up!' and held aloft an hourglass to show that it had emptied. The kamaitachi bowed and left the ring, whereupon the next challenger stepped in. "The target is the ball: the prize is a wish."

"It is, hah..." Shiro Considered. The kitsune was much faster than he was, much taller and much stronger, but a voice in the back of his head reminded him that he had outsmarted demons that were faster, stronger, and taller before. The difference this time was that he didn't know the demon, so he couldn't pinpoint exactly how he would outsmart him... But a free wish from a kitsune, that was quite the prize...

"Judging by the expression on your face, the answer is no."

"Eh?"

"Your face." Mephisto wiggled the plum skewer in his general direction. "You were thinking of how to win Hoshi-no-Tama: the answer is no. I will not have you miss tomorrow's meetings just because the majority of your ribs have been relocated to the inside of your lungs."

"Oh come on - it's not like I would go into close combat with him. I'm not _that_ stupid."

Mephisto's amused look silently questioned just what evidence he was basing that statement on. Shiro shot a glare back at him, eyebrows raised.

"Oi. I would not have been turning nineteen today if I'd been dumb enough to think I could wrestle down a demon. How about you wipe that smirk off your face and find me a game I can actually play?"

Mephisto did talk back at him, as that was their customary route of negotiation: even so, he led Shiro deeper into Hyakki Yagyou, to a dead old tree whose branches had been covered in pristine white sheets. As they came closer, it dawned on Shiro that it wasn't sheets at all. The tree was covered in cobwebs, so thick and finely spun that they seemed solid. Beneath the branches sat a wrinkly old jorougumo. Shiro recognised it from his school book illustrations: the spider body, plated with chitin armor; the human torso that rose out of it where its head should have been. The human body half was covered in the finest silk lace, layer upon layer, and her grey hair pinned in the most exquisite ways. She looked less like an old lady and more like an aged empress - well, aside the shiny insect mandibles and her eight beady eyes.

"This game is called Tsurube-otoshi", Mephisto explained, although Shiro could see exactly what it was from looking at the reed pipes and the bowl of dried peas sitting next to them. "The rules are as simple as they come: load the pipe with a pea and hit the targets."

Shiro was about to point out that there were not targets to hit, when the demon playing fired off a dried pea and hit something with a sharp _konk_. The target - a coconut cloven in half - had dropped out from somewhere among the web-covered tree branches. It disappeared back up again as quickly as it had come down, and Shiro suspected the old jorougumo and her silk strings had everything to do with that.

"Make your gift basket hover or something, I gotta try this."

It did take him a moment to get used to the reed pipes. However, his aim was good, and his reflexes sharp, and Shiro left the jorougumo's stand with a smug smile and fairly large spindle of fine spider thread for prize.

He felt it constantly; the demons around him. Like a barely noticeable breeze against his skin, their presences immersed him but flowed past him. And that "flowing past"… Tentatively, Shiro tried opening his heart a crack: just a little, just enough to feel the thrill tickling his senses. Oh yes. The demons didn't bother looking at him any more than they did before, and he could _feel_ : feel the adventure rise like carbonic acid in his veins, feel his chest swell with the smells of the unknown. He was at the demons' parade, a place humans sometimes visited but seldom lived to describe, and the mere thought made his hairs stand delightfully on end.

* * *

"Greetings, your highness."

Greetings indeed.

Shiro had to make an effort not to let slip of his heart. Most of the demons at Hyakki Yagyou were hideous, or looked like disfigured animals. Not this one. A harionna, a flytrap for human men, bowed to them; waves of her lethal hair, braided and threaded with beads for the occasion, gushed over her shoulders as she did.

"Please, accept our gift." She hefted a small girl – her daughter, from the looks of it – and lifted her up eye-level with Mephisto.

Shiro thought for an instant that she was offering him the _girl_ in accordance with some strange demon custom, until he saw the little one gently gather purple-green hair to the side and fasten it with a comb.

"You look very nice, your highness." Her voice was like windblown grains of sand whispering over dunes, and she fidgeted shyly with the beads threaded into her own hair.

"So do you, little one." And to Shiro's great surprise, Mephisto plucked off one of the caramelised plums and gave to the girl.

Mother and daughter bid him a good evening and bowed deep.

"How do I look~?" he asked as they continued their slow stroll through the market.

Oh, what to say…? Peony kimono, purple hair, a comb decorated with seashells arranged in the shape of cherry blossoms…

"Like a half-starved comfort woman", he said before he could think, and cringed. "Shit, will they lynch me for saying something like that…?"

When in Rome, do as the Romans do: and most importantly, don't go calling Caesar a prostitute. But no demon within earshot paid any mind, and Mephisto shook his head through a mouthful of sweets.

"A demon who can't defend his own honour has no honour to defend. Knowing that you are romantically challenged I shall assume you have a hard time expressing your affection in proper ways."

"Oi, are those big ears just for decora- Hold a sec, it's falling off." Shiro saved the seashell comb as it fell… and realised he was in over his head. In more than one way. " _Right: how the hell do you do this?_ "

Because giving a hair decoration to a guy is like putting a tatting shuttle in the hands of a blacksmith.

The interesting thing about guys is that no matter what you put in their hands, they will most likely give it a try: maybe because it stings to admit incompetence, and maybe because incompetence itself is a quality guys are blissfully unaware of. Against better knowledge, Shiro decided to pick up the proverbial glove: he put the basket down, and reached up.

"It would be easier if you weren't so damn tall…" Shiro struggled to keep his balance on the wobbly toes of the geta. Would've been neat to stumble and fall on him now, wouldn't it? Like some clueless couple-to-be in shoujo manga… "You wearing geta is just ridiculous, you know that? You gotta be two meters even without them."

"One ninety-five", he corrected and leaned forward to enable him to reach. "It's custom to wear them with traditional garments; as a native, you ought to know."

"As a native, I can inform you that's a woman's kimono."

"I am well aware of that, actually." Seeing the look that Shiro didn't bother concealing, the demon smiled. "Male, female – what does that matter? I pick clothes that look good on me; an approach that would benefit you too, my friend. Winning a woman's heart is much easier if you take care to present yourself properly. It's a downright disgrace to neglect fine raw material, and given your general aptitude for courtship-"

"You want this in your hair or in your eye?" Shiro snorted, brow furrowed in concentration as he tried to figure out what the demon girl had done to fasten the comb. " _I'll be damned, it looks like he actually has that hair colour._ " Really, like an eggplant… "There's nothing wrong with my 'aptitude', I just have a knack for picking the wrong girls."

"An impressive such – ever thought of trying your luck with men instead?"

"Ever thought of trying your luck with someone as depraved as you?" he returned. "Wasn't that why you came here? There, I think I fixed it."

"This is a place for pleasures of all kinds, each with its own allure", he smiled, straightening up and biting off another crinkly plum. "Take a look around and see what suits your palate, birthday-boy."

* * *

Mephisto had, it would seem, tried every snack in existence at least four times.

"These are made of fermented grain, these are wild honey and crushed hazelnuts; those over there are pieces of honeycomb filled with goji berries and coated in ginkgo resin, and those gooseberry shortcrust tarts are extremely savoury…" He used his plum skewer to point to this-thing-and-that on the counter of a food stand that also seemed to sell gelatinized sea slugs artfully wrapped in cobweb. "And if you are a little less of a sweet-eater, these-"

Shiro deftly pulled a caramelised plum off the skewer.

"But those are my favourites!"

"You eat all that yourself and you'll get fat", he grinned and plopped the sticky, aromatic treat into his mouth. After all, what suited his palate best was Mephisto's irritated face…

…ngh…

"Guaaaaah! Ah, ng-huerh ptweh oh god it _burns_!"

He breathed fire – or, it felt like he did. He couldn't tell, as the fumes that rose up from his oral cavity burnt tears from his eyes. And it didn't stop. No amount of swallowing, spitting, cursing or wheezing did anything to quench the inferno.

"Tsk tsk, what a mouth you've got", the demon snickered, face melting from false sulk to a mean smirk. He wasn't the only one: all around, demons cracked up at the sight of the human boy that was gagging and spitting. "Now where's that flask of holy water you keep around~?"

Realisation hit Shiro's furiously blushing face. This was for the tea incident…? No, he _couldn't_ have…

"You could _not_ know I would-ng-hauhh… that I would eat that!"

He should control himself better, _had to_ control himself better, but the laughing throng of demons made a vein pulse at his temple. Shame, chagrin, anger...

"Of course I could~ Know your enemy, and you can predict his actions in any given situation: predict your enemy's actions, and you can create situations to lead him wherever you like."

Like wagging a skewer around and asking if there was any food he would like to try, sneaky son of a…!

Shiro struggled to breathe as slowly as possible: even the gentle stream of air was oil on the fire in his throat. He could eat peppers and he could eat wasabi, no problem; but _that_ …!

"Damn you to hell and beyond, what the fuck was that?!" he wheezed, tears streaming down his cheeks.

"I believe humans call it Devil's Tongue." He twirled the skewer between his fingers with a pleasant smile. "Can't imagine why~"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:**
> 
>  
> 
>  **Onibi** are demon fireballs.
> 
>  **Harionna** is a beautiful female demon with long, breathtaking hair where each hair is tipped with a barb.
> 
>  **Kamaitachi** is described as a wind demon taking the shape of a weasel with sickle like claws.
> 
>  **Hoshi no tama** is that sphere you often see kitsune depicted with. Accounts have different theories about what it actually is, but since most of them agree it has to do with the kitsune's power, and that the demon doesn't want to part from it, I just decided to make it the kitsune's heart: it seems to fall in line with how demons work in AnE.
> 
>  **Temari** is a traditional Japanese handball made from cloth.
> 
>  **Tsurube-otoshi** is pea shooting.
> 
>  **Devil's Tongue** – the world's seventh hottest pepper. I've given Mephisto's cooking some thought, and I don't he's that poor a chef – at least not by Gehenna standards. I think he just likes extremely spicy food… Suppose you could take it for a little simile, if you like: don't make the mistake of trusting the sweetness of a devil's tongue, for it will burn you. =P
> 
>  **Shiro's birthday** is the 10th of May. I mentioned that the meeting would be on that date in ch 46, hoping that you would have forgotten about that by now (he had)... =P
> 
>  **Rhymes** are something I do from time to time in this fic, when Mephisto is in a theatrical mood. Most of the time I aim to make them sound like something he could have said in Goethe's _Faust_ but sometimes I just play around.


	12. The Lion, the Dance and the Peony

The music grew louder, and the bustling rivers from the streets fanned out into a delta embracing a small lake. Like a giant clam lifted from the ocean floor by a storm, a courtyard floated in the middle of it; brightly coloured rice paper lanterns threw their light at the reflections of the stars, and a beautiful arcade bridge arched its back on spindly legs from shore to courtyard. Once on it, Shiro realised it wasn't an arcade: vines and flowers had grown into a canopy so dense that not a single drop of rain would get through in a downpour.

"Wow, are those…?"

"Aosaginohi", Mephisto confirmed, throwing an eye at the ghostly herons that shone blue light over the still, black waters beneath the bridge. "Want to try eating one? I hear it makes bodily fluids glow blue for a week."

"I think I've learnt not to eat anything from this place, thank you very much."

"That I doubt: I think the matter is that you _can't_ eat anything", the demon hummed merrily in his lilting cadence. "You're still crying."

"I'm not crying." Irritably, he wiped moisture from his eye with the back of his hand. "My eyeballs are sizzling in their sockets from the fumes of that _torture fruit_."

"Devil's Tongue", he corrected politely. "And how is your tongue?"

"Insensitive and black and shrivelled-up like your heart."

"Is that so~? Doesn't sound any different from usual. Quid pro quo, then~?" he snickered, glancing down at him from the corner of his eye with a smile that made Shiro want to dunk his head in a baptismal font.

"Like hell it is: _your_ body regenerates."

"So does yours, just slower~"

"Tch, bite me."

Mephisto's grin widened to bare pearl-white fangs, and the forest green eyes Considered.

"I know what you're thinking", Shiro said in level tones, selecting a skewer with chicken hearts to point at the smug face, "and you will get this up your nose if you do anything more than think."

"And you wonder why you have no luck with women, you uncivilized animal…?"

Out in the courtyard… Shiro wasn't sure what it was. It combined the slow, ritual feeling of fan dancing with the lissom, fluent grace he'd never been able to copy from Mephisto's swordsmanship. The dancing demons wove intricate patterns back and forth, tapping feet and claws to the music and making the most of their extravagantly beautiful clothing. Merry, rotund demons that Shiro realised must be tanuki formed an orchestra in a spectacular whelk-shell gazebo: the bamboo flutes grew bent, the shamisens' necks lengthened and shortened to accommodate the tune, furry bellies were used as drums, and in place of bells they jostled their big bellies to produce a muffled, jingling sound.

"No way." Shiro's eyebrows rose high as he inspected the musicians. "They really _can_ use their bellies as drums?" His eyebrows came back down, furrowing as he tilted his head to the side. "But… I don't get how they make them ring and jingle like that. They eat rocks…?"

"Bellies are only for drumming: those aren't their bellies."

Judging from a second glance, no. Those were not bellies. Big and... hairy. But not bellies.

"…couldn't you just have lied and spared my brain that knowledge?" he groaned and covered his eyes with his free hand. "Now I'm stuck with images of Ryuuji-san that I really don't want."

"Hardly my problem~ 'The only way to get rid of temptation is to give in to it', as Wilde put it. And since it is my sole opportunity to do so, I intend to give in to every single one."

"Well you've got plenty of bad fruit to pick from", Shiro observed, looking out over the billowing ocean of brightly-coloured fabric. "Go knock yourself out, then."

"Oh, I will~ Shall we…?"

Shiro stared at him as if asked if he'd like another Devil's Tongue. What? Did he…? No, he probably just… But he did look like…

After several minutes of confusion, clarity, new depths of bemusement, and a moment's pondering if Belial really knew what he was talking about, Shiro managed one stunningly eloquent sentence:

"I don't dance."

"Fufufufu the lion roars in the face of danger but trembles at the thought of a mere dance? Aren't you sweet~" the demon snickered, eyes aglow with a flirtatious type of mischief that made Shiro's stomach twist uncomfortably. "Very well, a shy flower is lovely as any other, but grows best in the shade." The tip of the now bare skewer landed light reproach on Shiro's nose. "Stay out of trouble, little lion. There are bigger cats than you out hunting tonight."

" _And he's one of them_ ", Shiro thought. Watching Mephisto swagger out among the dancers, his lips quirked into an amused smile. " _Sure, if you've got a pink limo and a mansion with better view than Tokyo Tower you can walk like that. King of Foppishness alright._ "

Chuckling at his bizarre friend, he shuffled over to the wooden railing that surrounded the dancing courtyard. No need to ask him to stay out of trouble: this was the demons' parade, and if he focused on anything else than keeping his heart closed he would become the proverbial rabbit in the fox den. Still, it had gone smoother than he'd thought. He felt that he was indeed immersed in demons, but none paid him any mind. Not even when he kept that crack open to his heart.

Shiro put the basket on the floorboards, slipped off the troublesome sandals and perched himself on the railing. It was a beautiful May night, couldn't deny that. A perfect night for going to the market – and what a market it had been…!

" _Too bad he poofed away my smokes…_ "

However, among the gifts in the basket were an elegant, long-necked pipe, and dried tobacco. Shiro had already stuffed the pipe and lit it from a lantern when he realised it might not be human-friendly tobacco. Hadn't learnt anything, had he?

" _I hate it when he's right._ " He _did_ remember the Devil's Tongue… and the tea… and he really shouldn't smoke this… but the evening called for a smoke, would be _perfected_ by a smoke, and this seemed to be the only one he would get.

With great caution, Shiro puffed at the slender mouthpiece.

" _I could be smoking buffalo dung for all I know. That thing completely killed off my taste buds._ "

After a while of smoking with no ill effects he concluded that demons, having the sensitive noses they had, smoked a very light form of tobacco. Shiro drew a full breath, smiling at the tendrils that wound into the sky and bathed in colour from the lanterns. He tapped his bare foot to the beat of the belly-drums and let his thoughts drift with the twisting smoke. The music and the sounds of chirping frogs in the night wrapped around him like a good friend laying an arm around his shoulders, and he swayed slightly from side to side in the warm evening. The dancers circled back and forth with hypnotic grace, broke pairs, formed new ones… they danced like Mephisto talked; smooth and fluent… flourishing, with that odd, archaic cadence that was somehow also playful…

" _Whoa…!_ " Shiro grabbed onto the railing at the sudden tremor. Earthquake…? No, it didn't seem like anyone else reacted to it.

A short distance away, a couple of dancers – a blue-skinned woman with hair like the foam atop raging waves, and a half-man half-goat whose horns were hung with glittering jewellery – had missed the bridge and crashed into the railing beside it. They seemed too busy grinding against each other to notice, however.

Shiro turned his eyes back to the courtyard with a slight blush, and was effectively reminded what dance really is.

Humans aren't particularly honest about themselves. They like calling dance 'culture', or 'entertainment' – or 'art', if they want to be exceptionally straitlaced about it. In any other animal species, 'dance' means courtship. Dance was the language of love before thought gave shape to word, the burning poetry of the body used to woo a partner since time immemorial. Humans may not acknowledge that, but demons do.

Shiro's gaze struck the wooden floorboards like an arrow. He felt as though his intestines had been strung from his pelvis to his sternum and strummed violently with a pick. Sure, he knew Mephisto had a taste in men: that didn't mean he ever wanted to see him with one.

Shiro slipped back into his geta sandals, fumbled to pick up the basket without the yukata showing too much skin, cursing under his breath as he tried to expel the images from his memory. Indecent, filthy, disgusting…! Mephisto hadn't just _kissed_ a man, no; that _look_ on his face as he did was debauchery incarnate, and how absolutely _shamelessly_ he had snaked his arm around the guy's waist…!

And when they would pass over that bridge to go indulge in their perverted pleasures, Shiro did _not_ want to sit nearby. He clip-clopped over the wooden structure as fast as the stupid geta would allow.

" _Disgusting demon._ " His cheeks were probably redder than when he'd walked in on Midori and Sen, dammit. That hadn't been half as bad. Two girls together was kinda… hot. This was just wrong. Horribly wrong. " _Couldn't they at least have left_ before _they started… doing things like that…_ " Could've been worse: at least they had still had clothes on. " _Though he already had the obi off and slung around the guy's neck…_ "

* * *

Shiro strode the market streets aimlessly, caring only to be far away from anything Mephisto might be doing right now. He tried calming himself down by telling himself he should have expected it. He _knew_ Mephisto didn't care whether he slept with women or with men. He _knew_ they had gone to the dancing court so he could pick a bedmate. He _knew_ he should be more in control of his emotions, for the demons he stalked past turned their heads (in case such existed) after him.

" _Exercise, dammit…_ " Quell the fire, gather yourself up behind iron bars. " _It's a test, and you can't afford to fail it._ "

It was downright creepy. None of the demons had paid him any attention before, but now he felt eyes touch him wherever he went. And all his weapons and defences had been poofed away along with his uniform. A sitting duck. A rabbit in a fox den.

" _Relax._ " Pff, quite the contradiction to what he was forcing his mind to do. " _Some of them can probably smell fear. I just have to play it cool and act as if I have every right in the world to be here._ " He walked as casually as he possibly could, and cast glances left and right for branching paths and alleyways that would allow him to smoothly turn back to the lake and the safety of Mephisto's royal blood. If he was still there.

Shiro was silently cursing himself for leaving when he realised someone was addressing him. It was a walking treasure chest. The heavy bracelets of gold was the first thing that caught one's eye; second were the gems that littered the many necklaces adorning him from collarbone to waist; and third… third you thought he wore a skin-tight suit of copper under all the glitter, but that turned out to be his actual skin.

"May I have one?" the demon repeated, looking at him with yellow eyes as hard as the diamonds in his earlobes.

"Help yourself", he said, holding forth the basket with treats. Mephisto wouldn't notice if one or two was missing: and Shiro didn't know if a lone human could deny a demon anything here without getting into serious trouble.

"Where are you headed at such pace, boy?"

That was a _very_ strange accent he had, but none that Shiro could place. His voice sounded… metallic. Like polished bronze. Like something smooth and hard and shiny.

"To the lake." Could work… maybe… "But I think I might have lost my way."

"You certainly have." A set of sharp teeth glinted in the smile, teeth that just might have been coated with gold. "The lake is this way." He turned towards the lake and motioned for Shiro to follow. "Delivering treats for the dancers, are you?"

" _He thinks I'm a delivery boy? Works as a cover, I suppose._ " He righted the basket with his other hand, and followed. "Yes. I heard Prince Samael was there, and he's- his highness is supposed to be quite fond of sweets."

To his surprise, the demon winced. It was a small motion that he might not have noticed, if the light hadn't jerked suddenly in all his bracelets and necklaces.

"Word has it his highness is here tonight, yes."

Shiro hadn't thought about it before, but now that he did… 'His highness' this, 'his highness' that, 'his highness the Crown Prince'. Behind the bars of Shiro's closed heart, curiosity stirred.

"I'm not that familiar with demon customs, but is it wrong to call somebody royal by name?"

"There is nothing wrong at all in addressing members of the royal family by name, so long as proper respect is shown", the sleek metal-voice said. "We do, however, seldom call the Crown Prince by name."

"'Cause he's Crown Prince, or…?"

"An inquisitive mind you have~ Alas, I am a child in comparison to the age of that custom, and I know not its origins. I only know that one does not speak his highness' name aloud." His large lips pulled into a thin smile. "You have a keen interest in the ways of demons, yes? I can teach you all you want to know."

Had Shiro's attention not been occupied by how the onibi light gave the demon's skin the sheen of real copper, he might have noticed the hungry gleam in those diamond eyes.

"That's nice, but I think I'll pa- decline. I'm just a temporary visitor here, I'll be leaving soon." He steeled his heart a little more, just to be safe if that statement didn't go down well.

"Why~? You are young, and so is the night – it might be once a month for us, but once in a lifetime for you. Could you really let such an opportunity slip…?"

He felt it skirt his defences, tease his heart with touches that couldn't quite reach. Not that it needed to reach. He was unarmed. Alone. Easy prey.

" _Dammit, why did I walk off?_ " Stall, that was the only thing he could do: stall until they reached the lake. It shouldn't be far now. Mephisto _had_ to be there; the demon would never believe him if he said he was Prince Samael's friend. "Well, we've got time until I get to the dance." Some question, _any_ question off the top of his head… "Why is it that demons don't care whether it's men or women they sleep with?" Great. Great question. " _Good job, self._ "

It wasn't that far-fetched an association, but it wasn't a topic he wanted to discuss with any other demon than Mephisto. You never knew whose menu you were on.

"It is in the very core of every body to want another: it needs not the mind's opinion of gender, or the laws imposed by man." Metallic words, seductive words: words that curled around his neck like the coils of a boa. "It cares only for the touch of living flesh… and the sweet surge when life departs it at the highest moment…"

Shit, the demon was leaning in, pulling him by the obi…!

"I think that's all the information I need: no practical demonstrations, thank you. Oi...!"

There was a thick, muscular tail roping around him like a-

Out of the folds of time, a slender, towering shape appeared behind the demon. Appear might have been the wrong word, because there was none of the pink smoke or muffled explosions that accompanied him when he appeared; he simply was. As if he had always been there.

"Good evening. I believe you have something that's mine~?"

...and though it was the other demon he should have been afraid of, it was Mephisto that made Shiro's skin crawl. Perfectly polite and perfectly menacing: that was the same tone he had used when he told him of the imprint. The copper-skinned demon became, for an instant, stiff and unliving as a temple statue. The light in his eyes went out, turning them from diamond to slate. There would have been a frightened jingle of metal, if he had dared to even shiver.

"A thousand apologies, your highness", he said, bowing to him and unwinding his tail from Shiro as quickly as he could. "I did not know he belonged to your highness, else I would never have approached him."

"I trust not." He gave Shiro a heavy-lidded gaze up and down, seemingly satisfied with what he saw. "It's a good thing that no harm has befallen him. Quid. Pro. Quo~" His voice was soft, and his smile thin and sharp as an assassin's poison needle.

"Thank you, you highness", the demon said with the quivering trace of a scrape in his metallic voice, and left as hurriedly as his dignity would permit. When he did, Shiro blinked dizzily as orientation he didn't know he'd lost spun back in gear. They hadn't been headed for the lake, that was just illusion. They had been headed someplace entirely different: that alley of flower garlands led back out into the dark forest.

"…what the hell?" Shiro grimaced, though inwardly he breathed a sigh of relief. " _Yours?_ I'm not your pet, you know."

"Whose would you rather be, then~?" he inquired sweetly, tilting his head to the side with a honeyed smile. "That grootslang's? The daitengu's? Take your pick: there are plenty here who would be happy to claim a human without master."

Shiro got the hint: demon society, demon rules. Didn't make it any easier to squeeze out a 'fine'.

"But it's only tonight", he pointed out as they strolled side-by-side back to the lake, to watch the grand finale of the parade. "And only because it's necessa- Just _what_ do you think you're doing?" he snapped when Mephisto's thin arm snaked around his waist.

"Making sure other demons don't make the same mistake." He glanced down at him with a smirk that made no secret of how much he was enjoying this. "In your own words: tonight, you're mine~"

Shiro's face pulled in all possible directions. Oh, he could see the sense in it; and he saw exactly how Mephisto twisted that to his advantage.

"You make that sound so wrong I don't even know where to start…"

"You can start with not tripping over your own feet. It's very inelegant."

Mephisto's disturbance did make Shiro even more unsteady on the geta. He cursed under his breath and tried not to reflect on the situation. Tried not to remember that the last guy Mephisto had slipped his arm around had been virtually undressed on the spot. And speaking of _slipping_ …

"If your hand goes any further down form where it is, I swear I'll make you tie that kimono right over left", he ground out, eyebrow twitching as he did his best to look straight ahead and pretend he wasn't the least uncomfortable. Not uncomfortable at all.

"If you insist~"

A ripple trailed through Shiro's spine as Mephisto's clawed fingers secured themselves more firmly onto his hip.

"Oh, yeah, _that's_ what I insisted on. Honestly, didn't you get enough at the dancing court, you pervert?"

"Demons can never have enough", Mephisto winked with a sly grin. "Relax, Shiro – you'll have worry lines before you hit thirty!"

"Yeah…" He rubbed his forehead, attempting to smooth out his brow. "It was a tense walk, that. You're right: for me it's an achievement to grow older. It's a miracle if I reach thirty at all."

"Miracle might not be the proper word, with a guardian angel like me."

Mephisto's chuckle infected Shiro; he tried to stifle a bout of laughter, but didn't succeed very well. The idea was just too… silly.

"Mfufufufu, oh yes, that's gotta be the crappiest manga title ever: Guardian Angel Sammy…"

Mephisto made a… _noise_ that was best described as a dog grumbling because it can't reach an itch.

"I told you not to use that nickname."

"I never do as I'm told, remember? And right now, I'm being showcased as your toy boy", he said in a voice reeking of insincere pleasantness. "That permits me to use any dirty tricks I can think of."

"Hm~ maybe I should print _that_ on your ID-card, then?" Mephisto smirked, eyes lighting up with the idea. "Lower Second Class Toy Boy. Has quite the ring to it."

"Pffwahahahahahhaaa!" Oh yes, oh yes: the ring of cheap brothels in the shabbiest pleasure districts. "Oh god, Lower Second Class Toy Boy…! Ahaha-haah-haah do that and I'll shoot you, I swear!"

"Then I will demote you", the demon frowned delicately, although a a smile played in his eyes. "Lower Third Class Toy Boy. With restricted access to firearms."

"Fine by me: then I'll address my reports to Sir Sammy Cuddle-bun."

Mephisto hid his pained expression well, but Shiro felt him shudder through the hand on his hip.

They made an odd pair, yes. Unlikely and unexpected, yes. That was the beauty of it.

Where two worlds collide, there is an infinitesimal sliver of infinite possibilities that allows for all that both hold unlikely to occur. Where two opposites meet, anything that could be expected is nullified when they unexpectedly find likeness. Where light meets darkness, there is a grey zone for the ones who would attempt to walk a middle path that nobody has walked before.

* * *

The area was crowded long before they reached the lake. The particular street they had chosen ended where it was blocked by the backs of three huge, red-skinned oni cloaked in the pungent smell of rotting leather. Shiro expected them to move aside for Mephisto, and was startled when the latter pulled him close as if to-

*poof*

"Whoa-!"

He hadn't _meant_ to grab onto Mephisto… but when you suddenly find yourself a hundred feet up in the air, you aren't picky as long as you can hold onto something solid.

"If your hand goes any further down from where it is", the demon grinned, using Shiro's words, "I will make you tie that yukata… looser~"

They sat on a floating divan from the murkiest nightmares of fashion, furnished with plush striped cushions. Oh well, Mephisto sat on it; Shiro sat in his lap, more or less. With one hand around the basket and the other at the small of the demon's back.

"And I will dump a basket of food over your head", Shiro informed him politely. He'd done that on purpose, that was for certain: Shiro vividly recalled when Mephisto had _misinterpreted_ him in the infirmary while he was tying his bow. Shiro cautiously slid himself down on the divan, not really happy with how far he would have to fall to hit the ground. "We're watching the show from here?" he asked, stealing a distrustful glance downward and concluding that they hovered above the crowd around the lake. They wouldn't see much of the performance from up there.

"The only proper way to watch anything is in comfort, from the best seat", he snapped his fingers and produced several tiered serving trays loaded with biscuits and pastries, "with snacks." He leaned into his cushion with a content look as he selected a bite-sized slice of strawberry cheesecake. Just then, a familiar screeching, hissing noise shot through the air.

The first firework threw cascades of red light over them, and Shiro burst out laughing. Crossfire shot up from all sides of the lake and echoed through the silent forest, and Shiro laughed through it all: hearty, unrestrained laughter that shook his body free of tension and heavy thoughts.

"Oh, you did it, you sneaky bastard…! Hahahaha…!" He ran his fingers through his messy hair and grinned incredulously at the red, blue, white, and golden sparks that devoured the night around them. "You actually did it… Yukatas and fireworks and a secluded viewpoint…" He shot a glare at the demon next to him, but couldn't clear the smile entirely off his face. "You can forget that I'd hold your hand, though."

"How unromantic…" Mephisto pulled a face, but there was a smile tugging his lips as he licked cheesecake off his fingers.

"I thought we'd established that already; if you're looking for romance you've got the wrong guy." Shiro peered over the edge of the divan. "And I think I might have accidentally knocked somebody out with my geta", he laughed softly, wiggling his remaining sandal with his toes.

"A most unusual way to make someone fall for you", Mephisto observed with a downwards glance, "but then again you do have your own unique way of showing affection, Cinderella."

"And I was Sleeping Beauty earlier…? Yeah, I was awake. A little. Seriously though, who's the princess here?"

"Why, I am obviously the Prince", Mephisto snickered and splayed a hand over his chest as a bright shower of sparks lit his eyes from green to gold. "That leaves you to be the princess."

"Fancy clothes, and shoes for the ball? No, you're my fairy godmother", he teased back. "Goes great with your big, pointy ears."

"I don't have big ears." Said ears pulled down as if to underline the statement. "They are proportional to the rest of me."

"Proportional to your oversized ego", Shiro chuckled under his breath, leaning back against his cushion to enjoy the show.

"I heard that."

"Big ears, good hearing."

"I don't have big ears!"

The night exploded around them, veiled in acrid mist and flashing light, and the clipped tunes from the tanuki orchestra chased the trails of smoke up to their front-row seat.

"I think this is the best birthday I've had", Shiro murmured through a soft smile. It didn't matter if Mephisto's ears were good enough to pick it up or not. It was still true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N**
> 
> **Grootslang** – mythological giant snake in Angola, supposed to eat elephants and covet precious stones.
> 
>  **Belly-drumming and other tanuki musical talents**. It's almost common knowledge, I think, that older tanuki can use their bellies as drums. The "bells" I'm not sure about, but I found this nice little Japanese song to base that on:
> 
>  
> 
> _Tan Tan Tanuki no kintama wa, Kaze mo nai no ni, Bura bura_
> 
>  
> 
> Translates as:
> 
>  
> 
> _Tan Tan Tan ring the Tanuki's balls, Even when the wind stops blowing, They swing away_
> 
>  
> 
> I just don't get that country's culture sometimes… xD
> 
>  **Tying a kimono**. What's fascinated me for a while is the tremendous significance of merely tying your clothes together. Folding the kimono's front left side over right is standard: the only time you fold it right side over left is when you dress a body for a funeral.
> 
>  **Legends and stories**. In traditional Japanese art, the lion is often depicted with peonies. Why?
> 
> An old legend from Katherine M. Ball's Animal Motifs in Asian Art:
> 
>  
> 
> _A priest, Shakkyo, while on a journey to Wu-t'ai-Shan in search of knowledge, was about to cross a stone bridge when a youth carrying fire-wood approached him and warned him not to proceed, as the country beyond was infested with lions which would devour him unless he was protected by spiritual power. As the priest was deliberating upon this information the place suddenly became fragrant and the air rang with beautiful music, while the youth revealed himself as Monju Bosatsu [a disciple of Buddha]. Then simultaneously, a lion came from the forest and, circling about a growing peony flower, danced for the edification of the priest._
> 
>  
> 
> There's also an old ghost story called _Botan Dourou_ (The Peony Lantern) that you can, with a little squinting, apply to this chapter.  
>  In the shortest version possible, a man sees a beautiful woman accompanied by a young girl holding a peony lantern walk past his house at night. He falls in love, and invites the woman to his house. She returns every night and leaves before dawn every day, and the man grows increasingly weaker. A suspicious neighbour peeks in on the pair one night, and since he is not under the spell, he sees that the woman is a skeleton: a ghost, leeching off the life of the man by seducing him. The neighbour warns him, and helps put up wards around the house when the man realises his life is in danger. The woman can't enter, but calls out to him from outside the house. Against better knowledge, overcome by his passion, he goes to her and follows her "home". The next morning, his body is found intertwined with the skeleton in her grave chamber.
> 
>  **Flower language**  
>  The peony: king of flowers, wealth, elegance, honour, love, and good fortune in romance/marriage – something Mephisto needs with such a romantically challenged young man as Shiro…? =P The peony is also traditionally used for protection against evil spirits – which I suppose fits, in a twisted way. x)  
> The wisteria (only the select pieces that apply here): patience, endurance, exploration, creative expansion.
> 
>  **Concerning names**. Names always have significance one way or the other in manga. I'm giving Shiro's a lot of attention, but it's harder with Samael since that has an entire mythology attached to it. Still: patching it together as best I can here. ^_^' Remember how Amaimon never calls him anything except aniue in anime and manga? In all likelihood, that is to hide the fact that his real name is Samael from the viewers/readers. But if we disregard ourselves and think of the logic of that inside the story, you can play with it in interesting ways. I can think of a few reasons why other demons wouldn't want to use his name.


	13. Brothers

…Jesus. How many hours of sleep had he gotten…? By the time Mephisto had dropped him off at Kiridani Ryokan he'd been just awake enough to tell the toothbrush from the razor: and when he woke to the blearing of a heartless alarm clock some time later, he came as far as squeezing toothpaste over the razor blade before he realised he'd gotten the wrong article.

* * *

"What's this slovenly appearance?" Mephisto frowned disapprovingly, hands on his hips, as Shiro came shuffling towards the meeting hall. "You are attending a conference of great importance, and representing your school: some manners, if I may!"

Shiro fished the rolled-up tie out of his pocket with a facial expression that made words superfluous. Mephisto had poofed the uniform to his room the night before, in a neatly folded stack that ruined Shiro's use-and-re-use knot. The demon cocked an unimpressed eyebrow.

"Nineteen years of age, and you still don't know how to do a tie?" He plucked the garment out of Shiro's hand, tugged the collar up, and slung it around his neck. "You're lucky I had plenty of practice on my younger brothers."

"Playing dress-up on them instead of dolls, Princess…?" Shiro smiled sweetly.

"Only Iblis", he replied blithely, gloved fingers deftly working the tie into a knot. "He had such great lines, looked good in anything you put him in."

"Pfffnnhehehehe don't do this to me…! I'm attending a meeting with just two hours of sleep, you're only making it worse…!" Shiro covered his face with his hand, shaking with unhinged laughter. He was tired alright. Just imagining Mephisto with a pair of curling tongs… "Man, I'm glad I'm not your brother…"

"So am I."

"What, I wouldn't make a good prince?"

"I have _six_ brothers", Mephisto emphasised. " _Younger_ brothers."

"Well, I have zero brothers, so I don't know what I'm missing."

"Two centuries of teaching Astaroth table manners. Fifty years' vain attempts to get Amaimon to stop biting his claws. And so on and so forth. I don't want to think of how long it would take to make you quit smoking." Mephisto smoothed the collar down over the tie. "And cursing." He adjusted the tie and tucked the narrow end in the hoop. "And picking your ears!" he grumbled with a pained grimace.

…Shiro felt the tiniest twinge of regret that he wasn't Mephisto's brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N**
> 
> Six younger brothers? Seen Rin in ch 39 of AnE?
> 
> 'nuf said.


	14. Disaster

Disaster.

Shiro shed each piece of clothing with a heavy sigh.

Not a natural disaster that strikes without warning, indiscriminate in its fierceness and adhering to the laws of chaos alone, no: a human disaster. A disaster that creeps up on you in orderly fashion, hiding its destructive nature in the guise of good intentions. Slower by comparison, but just as devastating.

* * *

_"We come from different traditions, but have worked side by side for long years: what made that possible, is respect. Respect allowed us to each lay half the distance behind, and join hands at the middle. Thus, we do not say 'an exorcist should not do his work': we say 'an exorcist's work can be done many ways'. When you evict humans from a place they have no right to stay in, you do not do so by shooting them down like dogs. Instead, you speak to them. You explain why they cannot stay, and offer them another place to live. The same can be done with demons. The Order of the True Cross promotes peace, and the way to peace need not be paved with bodies. Peace means no bloodshed; on either side."_

_The speaker for the Futotsuki, seated second from the middle of the table, nodded a small bow: the murmurs of interpreters kept droning a few seconds after he had silenced. Shiro nodded, too, and fought to keep his eyes from closing._

_"Respect is important to all of us", he listened in from an interpreter translating Italian into Japanese. "Respect is the very foundation we build cooperation and brotherhood on. Respect, loyalty, and faith are what ties us together against the troops Gehenna sends to Assiah. It is an attack, and it is the purpose of the Order of the True Cross to protect. The Order wants peace, as you say; and in war, the price for peace is paid in blood. If we were to capture and relocate demons, that price would be paid in human blood: that is not, and never will be, an option for the Order of the True Cross."_

_"For troops, one raises arms to protect: for visitors, one raises a cup of greeting, as we have done for you. Many demons come here are not troops but visitors, and what we fight are the merely shadows of our own fear and ignorance. Demons are curious explorers, knowing nothing of our world and our ways; and like children, they do not know right and wrong without explanation. But they are quick studies, and with time and exposure to human culture they can become valuable allies: the Futotsuki have seen generation upon generation prove this true. You can hardly contest my words, sirs; seeing as you have living evidence of the truth in them seated in your midst."_

* * *

Shiro slipped the tie over his head, keeping the knot for future use. The Futotsuki had addressed Mephisto often, one way or the other, hoping for support for their cause. He hadn't let them down – neither had he supported them. It was hard to tell what he _had_ done, when you were that tired and didn't quite follow his billowing cadence.

* * *

_"You speak like a true Futotsuki, Hiroshi-san, and that I say as a compliment. If ever there were a link between Assiah and Gehenna that made service like mine possible, it is you and your clansmen. It is true that I hold a most unique station within the Order; and yet, it is equally true that a familiar will turn against a tamer that loses his confidence. It is so because demon society is based on one rule, and one rule alone: might makes right. Demons either obey, or command. It's a crude rule to base an entire world on, but an effective such: the ones of power command, the ones of lesser power obey. The only way for demons and humans to coexist would be to bind every demon in Assiah to a human – and I fear there are simply too few humans strong enough of heart for that. Demons that are bound can serve the interests of the Order, as I do: but the ones that are not must be viewed as enemies. I will remind you: demons either command or obey; and if they do not obey the Order, they obey Satan."_

* * *

Shiro folded his shirt, trousers, underwear, and uniform jacket and stacked them in the locker. The tie was placed on top together with his socks.

The disaster had gained momentum, like an avalanche. Human disasters are strange that way: humans create them, and they can stop them, but they don't. They just don't. Ironic as it was, the only one in the discussion that had maintained civilized behaviour was the one that was not human.

* * *

_"They are capable of thinking and speaking like humans: all we ask is that they are treated accordingly. Even you must see, they are not animals!"_

_"If they were animals, there wouldn't be need for an organization to battle them. They are intelligent, I'll give you that, but they're creatures of evil with only two things in mind: corrupt and destroy. To liken them to humans is-"_

_"Is something you have never been willing to look away from your doctrine and admit. Demons have lived in these lands for thousands of years: they have half-human children here, and children's children. The mere fact that we can interbreed with them shows how close our species are! The methods you promote are equal to genoci-"_

_"You_ dare _speak such blasphemy as to equal demons with humans! If they can interbreed with humans it's because the Devil made them a mockery image of the Lord's creation, to ruin it from the very core by defiling the seed of-"_

 _"Gentlemen, gentlemen~ I believe I must once again intervene to clarify: demons and humans are not_ _related, in any way. That we can bear and sire children in Assiah is possible only because we borrow bodies of Assian birth. Our presence alters the body, and its seed and eggs; any child conceived with such a body will be altered also. It is not the topic of our discussion whether or not we are related, however, but why we come in contact at all. Demons have indeed lived in Assiah for millennia; peacefully, one might even go as far as saying, but peace is not the intention of the one that sends them. Conquest requires no troops or weapons other than time. With time, humans grow used to the presence of demons; with time, demons grow in number, and grow to consider this land theirs. Demons are territorial, as you know, and they do not take kindly to beings, human or demon, that trespass on their grounds. It is therefore vital –_ essential _, even – that humans do not tolerate demons on their land. I speak foremost of cities, villages, and places humans frequent: forests and mountains we lack the means to cover either way, and to hunt demons there is entirely unnecessary unless they are aggressive and prone to assailing humans. What the Order does, in essence, is to implement the very same rule demons have always adhered to: might makes right. It is the same rule you make use of in your bonding with your familiars, is it not?"_

* * *

Lastly, Shiro put away his glasses, scrubbed himself off in the washing area, and grabbed a towel. Gods knew he needed this: there would be another meeting tomorrow, and it would be just as bad as this one.

Towel on head, he made for the natural hot spring that had been annexed to the ryokan. A bliss sigh ghosted into the steam as he lowered himself into the water. Nothing like a hot bath to ease the stiffness out of the body.

Shiro enjoyed the onsen almost as much as he enjoyed sleeping. The one advantage of sharing accommodation with all the wives and kids? He could have the men's section virtually to himself. Just lean back, arms comfortably spread over the edge of the natural pool… Shiro's attention lingered lazily on the seductive dance of the steam rivulets – white and winding, licking over the water without tickling its surface – and was reminded of the demons last night. What a birthday that had been… pebbles and puddles… there's no avoiding inconveniencies on life's path, so you might as well learn from them…

He sat. Nothing more, just sat: that is the greatest luxury a human being can have. He dozed slowly; nothing moved, as if time stood still… and that was the only reason he noticed the small waves lapping at his chest. Shiro strained his myopic eyes but saw no one – only a very dense swirl of steam that hovered close to the surfa-

"What are you doing here?!" He hurriedly pulled down the towel to wrap it around his hips. Yes, it got soaked. That didn't really matter at the moment. "They have an onsen back at your ryokan, too!"

"Yes, and it's full of diplomats and exorcists", the white dog pointed out as it swam over to him. "A lot less crowded here."

"…and because there's so much space, you sit in my lap?"

"It's the perfect height when I'm in dog form." And with that, he plopped his little body down on the submerged towel, which left only his head above the surface. "Ah~ nothing like a hot bath to ease the stiffness out of the body…" His ears drooped pleasantly along with his eyelids.

…and there was something in the whole _aura_ of contentment around him that simply could not go unpunished.

"Get yourself some other seat." He rose sharply, and the detestably smug little dog plummeted underwater with a yelp. "I doubt dogs are even allowed in-fwehehehahahaa!"

Mephisto had a rather… _flat_ … frame as a man, and he gained no extra weight as a dog: all his cuddly softness was fur. _Dry_ fur. And the _look_ the miserable little creature gave him, after crawling up on the floor tiles…

"Snrrrkahahahaha you should see yourself ahaahahahaahaa…!"

"I _know_ what I look like, _thank you_ ", he grumbled, and waited until Shiro was within range before he shook water out of his fur. "Such a rude way of- no, that's mine!"

"You got my towel wet", Shiro pointed out, wiping his neck and torso with the one Mephisto had left on a rock.

"You have no manners at all – dumping me in the water and then taking my towel! I'm a _king_ , you know! The least you could do is dry me!"

"Not coming off as very royal in that condition", he grinned at the fuming little swab. "Didn't you just shake?"

"And do I look dry to you?" he huffed, and the sight of the dripping moustaches blowing outwards sent Shiro into another laughing fit.

…ah, _yes_ …

"Right, right: I'll dry you, your highness", he said, carefully considering if it was worth it or not. It was, of course. He was tired: works wonders on judgement. "I'll catch hell for it later if I don't." And hell two times over for what he was about to do…

Shiro folded himself down on his knees and wrapped the still fairly dry towel around Mephisto…

…and cracked a devil's grin.

"No escaping now, your highness~"

"Nghah! St-t-t-top-p tha-a-at! It g-goes a-g-g-ain-n-st-t-t th-the g-grain, you m-mong-g-grel!"

"Don't you worry, I'll make a fine little cotton-wad out of you~" Shiro sniggered maliciously as he rubbed the dog roughly in all the wrong directions. Mephisto put up a most undignified fight, whining and squirming and kicking until he almost got away. "No you don't – you're not dry yet!" Shiro dove after him, caught the struggling little body around the midriff, and lifted him off the floor for a better-

"What was that…?" Shiro's grin disappeared, only to grow back with ten times more devilry glinting off it when he realised what _that_ had been. "I don't believe it…!"

"It was nothing! Let me g-nnnhihihihihihiiihahahahaaaaa!"

Oh no~ When you find out that the King of Time, the most powerful demon in the history of Assiah, is _ticklish_ … you do not let go.

"Ahahahahaha-ah-ah-nnnh-ihihihihihii st-stop!"

"Oh you've got better manners than that, your highness~ How about a 'please'…?" This was just too good to be true. The furry little body twisted like crazy in his lap, legs kicking the air and tears – tears? could dogs even cry? – trickling into the already damp fur.

"Nh-ahahahehehhehehee-I can't ah-ah-nhahahahahaa- _stop_ or I will…!"

*poof*

The dog in his lap grew _a lot_ heavier. And the pink smoke bought Shiro just enough time to realise that the chest he hugged was furless. And naked.

"Okay, I won't tickle you", he said hurriedly and yanked his hands away, eyes squeezed shut and cheeks red-hot. "Just turn back into the dog."

"So you can continue your assaults? No thank you."

No; no, no, _no_ – _anyone_ could come in at _any_ time and find them in a situation that would hardly qualify their relation as _friendship_ …!

"Come on, Mephisto, don't do this to me…!" Shiro groaned. " _He is not_ _doing this, that cheeky son of a bitch, he is_ not _playing hard to get_ now _of all times…!_ " He should at least push him off his lap, but he didn't really dare… touch him… without seeing what he touched…

"Me, do anything to you?" said the affronted voice in the darkness outside his eyelids. Oh yes; he was playing hard to get. Probably with a grin three miles wide. " _You_ are the perpetrator here. My hair is a mess. And it's _wet_. Do you have any idea how bothersome it is to untangle when it's-"

"Fuck's sake, I'll make it up to you: just turn back _now_!"

*poof*

The little dog was back in his lap…

"You've _got_ to be kidding me."

…with a hair brush between its teeth.

* * *

Shiro had never had a pet, or hair long enough to need a brush. It wasn't rocket science, using one, but he wasn't exactly… skillful. Initially, yelps and accusing glares were his sole reward for mending the tangles, but after a while… after a while, Shiro had found a whole new motivation for the task.

Demons were truly fascinating, in their many unexpected ways. Pleasure-seekers that pay no attention to who or what they damage in search of what they want, yes: but when sated… no one ever mentions how peaceful they can be when satisfied. No one ever mentions how they can become soft and warm under your hands, and how their little paws stretch lazily with contentment.

" _Wonder what Kohu-sensei would say?_ " he smiled to himself, rhythmically running the brush through the white fur. " _If I said I'd made the King of Time purr in my lap…?_ "

Yes, Mephisto purred. Not like a cat, or a dog, or anything this side of the dimensional barriers, but it was clearly a satisfied rumbling that rose from his throat. And occasionally, so did other sounds:

"Mmnnnh~ yes~"

"Jesus, don't say that…" he grimaced, halting the brush halfway down his back. "At least don't _sound_ like that. It's disgusting."

"Give me more, Shiro~"

Every muscle in his body convulsed at once. He _knew_ he was being baited… but damn it's hard to resist when you're baited by such a silver tongue…

"Chris'sake, you're a _dog_! Do you have any idea how disturbing it is to hear things like that from a dog?!"

"You'd rather hear it from me in human form~?" the awful little creature suggested: Shiro's face heated up all the way out to the tips of his ears.

"No: _thank you_ for giving me nightmares for the rest of my life."

"You even dream of me? Shiro Shiro, is there something you're not telling me~?"

"Yeah: if you wanna get brushed, shut up." On second thought… "Or else I'll toss you in the cold pool", he added, casting a glance at the fuzzy shape of the tiled pool in the corner.

"Such a brute", the dog huffed with a dismissive flick of the little tail. "Toss _me_ in the pool for images _your_ mind wove – my word! Delve and dissect and deduce the world without, but dare not look within: even in this day and age, humans blame their faults on demons."

"And even in this day and age, demons blame theirs on humans." Shiro captured a tangle that had hidden itself by Mephisto's elbow and set to work on it. "Weaving looms weave according to the patterns they're fed. You know what the human mind wants; all you need to do is feed it the right words. Or sounds."

"Hmm~?" The little ears perked up. "Did I just hear you admit that you want to-"

"I meant with girls."

"That's not what you said", the dog enlightened pleasantly.

"I'm tired: you don't listen to what I say when I'm tired. I _meant_ with girls."

"Nothing like alcohol and fatigue to loosen the knots Prudence ties on one's to-what are you-NO! No no no no…!"

"You'll be quiet, then?" Shiro said with a smug smirk, holding Mephisto under his front legs over the hungry depths of the cold pool.

"Yes!"

Indeed, demons were fascinating: yesternight, that anxious little mop of fur had been King of Time out to the tips of his fingernails. So many contrasts and contradictions...

"What…?" said dog asked, and Shiro realised he had still held him over the water while he spaced out.

"Technically", he creased his brow in contemplation, "I should drop you. You were warned."

Heh. That one hit the mark.

"No, it's cold!" Mephisto pawed feebly for support on his lower arms, as if he could feel the grip loosening already. "I don't like cold!"

Shiro's pokerface lost to the irresistible tugging at the corners of his lips.

"You really are an adorable little cuddle-bun."

"Eh?" Mephisto went still. Dammit if he wasn't even cuter when he was confused.

"But if you're not quiet from now", Shiro carried the dog back to where he'd left the brush, "you're getting dunked in the cold pool." He seated himself again, with Mephisto in his lap and a mean smile on his lips. "And if you wanna get dry and warm afterwards, I believe there's a tumble dryer in the laundry room that will be happy to provide its services."

 _Offended_ , the look said. _Not amused consent_ , was woven in between the lines, along with a small, dignified notion of _…well, it's worth it_.

It says something of two individuals that they don't need words to communicate.

* * *

Shiro had, in all honesty, always considered himself a cat person. Dogs were clingy and dumb, and noisy. Cats were a good size; they were intelligent, and they were independent. They didn't give a damn about your opinion, and you didn't need to give a damn about theirs.

…but they weren't half as cute as Mephisto. Yes: cute, dignity be damned. That dog was definitely cute. He wasn't much bigger than a cat, he was intelligent, and independent, and he certainly didn't give a damn about Shiro's opinions. And he purred. The tangles were long since undone, but Shiro kept the brush running through the fur in a steady rhythm.

Mephisto had been silent, initially, but as his ears and eyelids began to droop lower, that soft rumble escaped him unawares. Shiro didn't alert him to it. Instead, he watched as the little body rocked with the motion of the brush and began to melt from sitting into lying.

Once Mephisto was too far gone to notice, Shiro started guiding the hairs in other directions with the brush. Oh yes, that would look nice~ Not too much, or he would stir, but enough to make for a very interesting hairstyle when he turned b-

*poof*

"Oi! Wake up! You never said you turn back when you fall asleep, dammit! Wake _up_!"

* * *

Shiro crawled onto his futon and kicked off the covers. Not all the demons in Gehenna could keep him from sleeping tonight…


	15. Miracle

…and yet, that was precisely what it took to wake him. Shiro sensed it before he heard it, thought it before his mind woke up: demons.

He got his glasses in a hurry and fumbled out of the twisted sheets to open the shoji doors to the balcony. Oh, it was a postcard view, alright. The moon bled blue-white light down the valley slopes, and the cicadas sang a deafening serenade to summer: a night for love and star-gazing… if the stars had not been eaten by black wings.

" _…like when Kaa-san described the war planes…_ "

Tengus. _Hundreds_.

Shiro had just enough time to get his uniform trousers on: a belt for the gun and two pockets for the spare clips of ammunition, all he needed. He shot the tengu dead the moment it tore through the balcony doors.

The spent case struck a muted clink on the tatami mats.

23

One magazine in the SIG P220 and one in each trouser pocket. Eight bullets in each. One fired.

" _Let the countdown begin_ ", he thought grimly.

Panicked humans do one of two things: hide or flee. Shiro ruled out the latter option as he ran for the stairs that led to the ground floor of the ryokan. The sky was the tengus' home ground: better stay indoors where their wings would make them clumsier.

Still, he ran downstairs to the foyer, because there is one thing panicked humans never do: think.

"Stop! They're swarming out there!"

A dishevelled mother in nightdress was dragging two bawling children towards the entrance. She cast a quick, white-faced glance at him over her shoulder, and pushed open the doors. She hadn't understood a word he had-

" _Of course not, she doesn't even speak Japanese!_ " Oh, English, English; why was he so poor at English?

No time for speaking: he lunged after her, out in the screeching night, heart sealed shut and counting.

22, 21, 20…

Feathers rained from the sky like light, black snow.

19, 18…

He snatched one of the kids – the little girl that had chased and exorcised her brother in the foyer the day before – and hid her behind him.

17, 16: empty

He roughly pushed her and her mother back towards the ryokan, disengaged the empty clip and shoved another into the handle. The mother refused to go back, tore at his arm and screamed something he couldn't underst-

A cry that wasn't a tengu's screech wailed above, and a white, horrified bundle flickered in and out of vision among the black bodies in the sky.

 _Tengus reside in the mountains and typically take the shape of priests and monks to trick humans,_ Kohu-sensei's voice played in his head, like a tape recorder. _The older, stronger daitengus are intelligent, while young tengus are more likely to behave like animals. Regardless of age and level, they are nasty creatures, known to kidnap and feed on human children._

Shiro pushed his glasses up with his left hand, raising the gun with his right.

The kid was in the line of fire between him and the tengu, swinging wildly in the wrinkly claws and increasing the distance by the second…

"Tch!" First shot hit another tengu that flew past. " _Come on, come on…!_ " Second shot went through the wing, and demon and child pivoted for the ground. " _It didn't let go of the kid, fucking-_ "

He sprinted ahead barefoot, ducking talons and beaks, and went down on the ground with the whole mess of feathers and blood and screaming child in his arms.

"That kid's not going anywhere!" Shiro grabbed something – no idea what, but it had feathers – and twisted. He jerked his head out of the way when a sharp beak tried to tear his face off. " _He's still screaming, at least he's alive._ " The beak came back around, and he was forced to drop the gun and grab it with both hands. This, the tengu didn't like: wings beating wildly at the ground under its back, it let the boy go and slashed at Shiro with its claws. It got him in the thigh with a force that made him see white stars, but a foot firmly planted into its chest prevented it from getting him in any vital parts.

In the corner of his eye he saw another tengu land between the kid and his mother, hopping towards the panicked boy on its crooked, scaly hind legs.

" _No – no no no! Shit…!_ "

The demon underneath him jerked its head sharply to the side, trying to free itse-

And in one rough twist, he snapped its neck.

More than that: under his fingers, cracks in the massive beak gave off faint tendrils of miasma when they healed back together.

" _I… should not be able to do that…_ "

The precious seconds that bought him didn't allow for thinking: a broken neck wouldn't kill a demon, but a silver-jacket bullet in its head would. He tore the P220 from the ground and fired, right into the beak that opened as the head snapped back onto the spine. Shiro swivelled around in a tenth of a second and put a bullet in the other tengu. The kid was completely out of it with panic, but fortunately kids operated on some default setting that made him run straight through the dissolving miasma, straight to his mother.

Was that 15, or 14? 13? More likely 14 or 13.

He hissed curses as he limped after them back into the ryokan, trying to remember how many bullets he had spent on getting the kid back.

13-or-12, 12-or-11…

The tengus were inside the ryokan, too, now. Screams and crying and sounds of feet running for the exit... Shiro herded panicked women and children back from the entrance, shouting an accented "Go!" repeatedly as he tried to think.

The demons were there because of the exorcists, no doubt. Demons were territorial; they discovered intruders, they attacked them. The other ryokan must be under attack too, but they were many more, they would be able to fight it off, fight their way over to them…

…how fast? 12 bullets or 11, it wouldn't be enough either way.

Shiro tore a notepad and a pencil from the reception desk, scribbled warding symbols on it and pinned it between the entrance door and the notice with onsen opening hours mounted on it. It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing.

Hold the ryokan until backup arrived from across the village: that was the only option. Ridiculous. Paper doors in every room, balconies and glass windows; did people ever stop to think they might build houses a little more safe? They had to barricade themselves somehow, barricade in a small space they could hold, preferably with only one entrance – a suicide strategy if the demons got through, but if they got through it wouldn't matter anyway since they had no means of-

The clawing and screeching from the other side of the door faded on his ears.

 _Open_ _09.00-19.00, free for guests staying at Kiridani Ryokan!  
Guests who do not stay at Kiridani Ryokan may use its onsen at the price of ¥1000 for adults and ¥500 for children (age 12 or under) _

"Salt!" he shouted when he finally remembered the English word.

A woman stumbled down the stairs screaming, a tengu hot on her heels but slowed down by the narrow, troublesome stairs.

11-or-10

"Listen to me!" he shouted at the pale, tear-streaked faces that huddled together in corners and behind lounge furniture. "I need to know how many of you there are, and I need sa- oh, for god's sake is there _anyone_ in here that speaks Japanese?!"

"I-I do!" said a thin, bespectacled man with huge, frightened eyes. His Japanese was accented with something that could have been French or Romanian. An interpreter. Perfect.

"Good, good: who's in room number one?" Shiro demanded curtly, tearing and scribbling notes as fast as he could.

"Uh, she is", the interpreter said, pointing at a blonde woman rocking a weeping ten-something-year-old in her arms. "What can-"

"The ryokan has twelve rooms: go through them number by number and see if anyone's missing!" He pictured Shizuku's omamori in his mind, hoping adrenaline wasn't making him forget the details. "It's not bullet-proof, but these should make demons less eager to jump you." He stacked the notes on the reception desk. "I want everyone to- what are you waiting for?" he snapped, snatching the gun beside him and shooting two tengus that had found a window. "If everyone's here: take the notes, grab the kids, and get moving! We need salt from the kitchen!"

9-or-8

Gun in one hand and the other pressed against the gash in his thigh, Shiro led the whimpering bunch through the door to the area restricted to personnel. The kitchen was tidy and small, with only two stoves, two refrigerators and a pantry, and it was-

8-or – _empty_

"Find salt!" he commanded, slamming his last ammo clip into the gun and making short work of the scavenging demons.

7, 6, 5 – the shells of their remaining lifelines rang musically against the tiled floor.

They left the kitchen with one bag and one tin box of salt. Shiro didn't know how much longer it would take for the exorcists to fight their way through; time has a tendency to be unreliable when it spins twice as fast in your head as it does outside it. Right now, time was measured in bullets, and they were running out.

Stay calm. He was doing everything he could, he had a plan, he had-

"Ngh…!"

"Sir? Sir, are you unwell?"

_He had a goddamn demon trying to take his body._

"I'm fine", he grated, supporting himself against the corridor wall with his right elbow. " _I can't afford this now! I have to get them to safety, I-_ " Or all these people would die, women torn to shreds and children eaten before their eyes; all because he was cursed with a heart that drew demons like bees to honey. " _It's probably because of me they're here: all the other exorcists are at the other ryokan. I'm the reason they-_ " He snapped his line of thought in half and turned his mind to the dark, fleeting presence that whispered despair to his heart. " _Leave. Now._ " It tried again to wind convincing words around him, but even if he couldn't save these people, even if he couldn't hold Kiridani Ryokan long enough for the exorcists to reach them, he _would_ hold his heart. " _Either you leave_ ", he said coldly, " _or you stay and watch me kill your relatives till my last breath. This body's mine._ "

"It's not far. Keep walking, and make sure not to lose anyone", he said aloud, pressed his palm over the wound, and limped on with a grim face. "Everyone in the water", he panted as he shouldered open the door to the onsen. "All in one pool, cram yourselves in if you must."

He sank down on a rock beside the pool and cast a quick glance at his leg – deep cut, but it had taken on the outside of the thigh and not the inside, thank god – before he drew a breath and started chanting. People pushed and shuffled into the pool, gasping at the heat but bearing with it.

Right. If he managed this, he'd done all he could. _If_ he managed it.

"O water, creature of God, I exorcise you in the name of God the Father almighty…"

He had avoided Aria chanting until then. Goggles-sensei was a living example of the risks with Aria: start chanting, and demons will come at you in a solid wave of darkness. Arias never went on missions without backup.

Backup had better arrive soon.

"O salt, creature of God", he began when the baleful screeches soaked in through the walls. The children weren't screaming anymore: they were deathly silent, barely even breathing. Waiting for a miracle. "I exorcise you by the living God, by the true God, by the holy God, by the God who ordered you to be poured into the water by Eliseus the Prophet so that its life-giving powers might be restored." The door, plastered with their ward notes, trembled. Shiro was surreally aware how his voice bounced off the walls, like rock striking rock…

" _I might die here._ " The corners of his lips quirked in a brief, sickly smile: " _It's a miracle if I reach thirty._ "

…and how his right forefinger rested on the trigger, breathless and motionless like the children clinging to their mothers: waiting for a miracle. "I exorcise you so that you may become a means of salvation for believers, that you may bring health of soul and body to all who make use of you, arid that you may put to flight and drive away from the places where you are sprinkled…" The door burst, and the world flowed back in at them in a flurry of dark feathers and yellow eyes. "…every apparition…"

4, 3

"…villainy, and turn of devilish deceit…"

2, 1

"…and every unclean spirit, adjured by Him Who will come to judge the living and the dead and the world by fire."

0, and the yellow eyes were burning with hate-

"Amen!" He crossed himself, and kicked hard with his good leg at the tengu that lunged for him. The force of the impact tipped him backwards into the water, and the bag and the box of salt with him.

The heat and the salt bit into the wound in his thigh like fire, and he burst the surface in a bubble of hissing profanities.

" _Hope you don't mind my mouth, God. If this doesn't work…_ " He brought his hand back and whipped water at the demons. " _Thank you…!_ "

The tengus up front stumbled backwards against the flood of black with high-pitched wails of pain, and the room filled with the nauseating smell of burning flesh. Backup could take its time: this barricade they could hold as long as they needed.

* * *

People began shouting when they heard gun report from within the ryokan. Shiro didn't feel like shouting, or doing anything else for that matter. He had unfastened his belt and pulled it tight over the leg wound, but pressure and salt water combined for a thumping pain that had him gritting his teeth by the time backup arrived.

He was too tense to be moved by the tears when families reunited. He was too weary to join in the murmured choir of thankful prayer in different tongues. Too tense and hurt and detached for any of it: but when Kasumi hugged his wet body tight and told him he was an idiot, he smiled. She smelled of sweat and adrenaline and… gratitude.

* * *

Demons driven off, Doctors assembled the wounded in the foyer to methodically assess damage and administer treatment. Some villagers aside, all of the injured were exorcists and clansmen of the Futotsuki. Small wonder – they had had to brave the assaults out in open air all the way there.

Shiro was made to strip down to his underwear, and was given an anaesthetic before the Irish exorcist disinfected the wound and set to stitching it together. It looked pretty damn gross, to be honest. He vaguely wondered if he wouldn't have preferred the pain to that… that _wrong_ feeling. He could feel the needle in the flesh, but he couldn't feel the pain, and that creeped him out. In his mind, that was what it felt like to be dead. Shiro occupied himself with watching others being treated instead.

There was a light in their faces. A light he'd never seen and couldn't name. Torn and tired, they all still smiled as if there wasn't a trouble in the world. As if they all hadn't almost died.

It's easy to forget the simple things. Simple things like life: you don't notice life until it's slipping from your fingertips. You don't notice the taste of air until it's forced out of your lungs by the swansong of dreams unfulfilled, or the beat of your heart until it strums an arrhythmic funeral march against your ribs.

Humans are stupid that way. They are also marvellous.

When you can breathe again, you taste the air for the first time: you feel the beat of your heart in every capillary, in every cell, vibrant like the first new sprouts from fire-ravaged ground.

You feel life.

It took a while before Shiro identified the faces beyond that glow and realised what he was seeing: exorcists and Futotsuki on hastily assembled futons, side by side, disagreements burnt away by the fire to make room for new things to sprout. Friend, foe and family flocked around the sickbeds to share that precious moment of simply being alive: and though he was probably light-headed by fatigue and anaesthesia… that looked a bit like a miracle.

"Mr. Fujimotó?" The same thin, glasses-wearing guy with the French-Romanian accent. "That is your name, right? Fujimotó Shiró?"

"Yes?" It sounded so weird, pronounced like that, but he was too tired to protest.

A tall, robust man next to the interpreter bent down and shook Shiro's hand with gusto, a man with a face that- well, Shiro could only look at his nose, really. If you took a tengu beak, shortened it and broke it, it would look something like that. Truly fascinating. When the man spoke – some fast-paced, rhythmic language that sounded like it was spoken through his nose rather than his mouth – his thick eyebrows moved incessantly.

"Monsieur Deslauriers expresses his deep gratitude and earnest admiration for the courage and intelligence you have shown in keeping these people safe", the interpreter translated. "They feared the worst, when the demons attacked so suddenly and there was no way to reach Kiridani Ryokan quick enough. Rest assured, you will receive proper commendation for your performance, once-"

An even taller man came up next to Deslauriers, and his white uniform stood in stark contrast to the exorcist's black one. When it was clear that they would only be speaking whatever-Deslauriers-was-speaking – French, if Shiro would chance a guess from his name – Shiro motioned the interpreter down on his haunches and asked him to translate.

"Yes, yes, there were no casualties", Deslauriers ensured.

"What a relief!"

"Indeed – and we have this young man to thank for it. I have not heard all accounts, but my wife tells me he handled the situation with such authority she knew they were going to be safe the moment he came into the foyer. A role model indeed, Sir Pheles."

"Hai hai~ A prodigy, best in his class – and he has the youngest Yaonaru to compete with for that position. Haah, a true shame, to lose such a promising young exorcist."

"Lose? Whatever are you talking about?" Deslauriers' eyebrows made a most fascinating leap, as if determined to take cover in his thick, curly hair.

Mephisto's gloved palms turned upward, to show how much say he had in these matters.

"Alas, Fujimoto-kun's education is covered by funds from the Japanese government; with his graduation from high school this spring, he will no longer have the means to pay for further schooling." Mephisto heaved another sympathetic sigh. "If only his talent had been discovered earlier: one year is far too short a time to pass the exorcist exam, even for him."

Deslauriers' eyebrows made another attempt to jump into his hair, and he turned to Shiro when he spoke:

"Is it true that you have not been in exorcist school for more than a year, Mr. Fujimotó?" the interpreter forwarded.

"I enrolled last semester. Sir", he added, shooting a quick glance at Mephisto. Perfectly collected. Perfectly patient. _Perfectly in control._

"…m sure we can find a suitable scholarship for talented students of lesser means. Even if Mr. Fujimotó is over-age, he is…" drifted past his ears and registered somewhere in the back of his head: his brain was busy with other things.

Demons either obey, or command: obey or command the single rule of demon society. _Might makes right_. If a mighty enough demon commands… will they obey _any_ command?

" _He went to the parade the night before._ "

No, there was no way he would risk the lives of-

" _He wrote me in to share accommodation with the families._ "

But that wouldn't-

" _I didn't remember packing that P220._ "

There was no way, no way in _hell_ that Mephisto would go through all that trouble for the sake of a scholar-

" _Not for a scholarship._ " Shiro looked around again, looked at the serene faces of exorcists and Futotsuki rejoined with their families; exorcists and Futotsuki that had fought side by side against a common enemy, disagreements burnt away and soil left fertile for new growth. " _Miracle might not be the proper word…_ "


	16. Faith in you

Next day brought a fairy tale ending into the postcard landscape, and by noon they had decided on continued cooperation between the rebel faction of the Futotsuki clan and the Order of the True Cross. The few arguments that arose were muted with grave understanding of necessity, and pointed disagreements were smoothed down by the refreshed knowledge that without each other's aid, some of them would not be sitting at the table today.

No fire forges bonds stronger than hardship.

No cause unites people like a common enemy.

No one knows human nature better than a demon.

Shiro tried, all the way back to the academy, to worm a confession out of Mephisto: in vain, not surprisingly. His silver tongue deflected questions and accusations as easily as his sword parried strikes in sparring, to the point that Shiro brought out his trump card:

"As I recall, I promised to keep your secrets", he said, staring hard at the profile reading manga, as if he could force it to show some betraying tick. "And in return, you promised you would trust me."

Green eyes glanced sideways at him with a sly, amused look.

"Are you saying I didn't~?"

One sentence. With a silver tongue like his, one sentence is all you need _._


	17. Pulling strings

A button with too sharp edges. The kind that eats away at the thread it's sewn with, slowly. One by one, fibres wear thin and snap.

And Shiro was very close to snapping.

He had always had a temper, though nowadays he rarely exploded the way he had done a few times in the past. That was, in all aspects, a good thing: but right now, he wanted nothing more than a reason to explode.

* * *

The gash in his leg hurt, and it kept him on crutches: still, that was okay.

He had locked his cigarettes away in a drawer 36 hours ago, and he could hear them sing sweet love songs for his fingers. It was a bitch, but it was still okay.

Mephisto had admitted, of sorts, that he had staged the attack on the ryokan. For a human, that was not okay: for a demon… well, you can take the demon out of hell, but you can't take hell out of the demon. Demons have a different way of thinking. A different way of doing things. Mephisto served the Order's interests, in his own way; and, considering the alternative, it was… dubiously okay.

Shiro had had an inexplicable, stiff soreness in his finger joints ever since the meeting. The school nurse had no guesses except growing pains or soreness from muscle exhaustion, and had prescribed resting his hands as much as he could. No target practice. That… was not okay.

Withdrawal had started thumping a slow, steady rhythm against his skull, and no matter what he ate he never seemed to get rid of the hunger.

And so, threads had begun wearing thin.

* * *

Tch, even if someone did cause him to explode, what was he going to do? Hop after them on his crutches and beat them up with hands he could barely curl into fists? He had no idea, only knew that he felt like a steam engine with all vents blocked. Whoever caused the last thread to snap would be a sorry bastard.

Shiro made his way through the school corridors like a bomb with the countdown in bright red digits on his forehead, and many who normally might have offered a guy on crutches help with opening doors kept a nervous distance. When, despite that, a sophomore guy asked if he wanted him to carry his satchel up the staircase, the "no" he snarled at him was more of an animal growl than human speech.

The battle at Kiridani Ryokan may be in the past, but there is no rest for the wicked. Shiro still had to protect the people around him; from himself. Demons swarmed to his boiling temper, clustered the air around him and waited patiently for his cold detachment to slip and leave him open for the taking. One slip, and he would hurt someone seriously before he regained control. Whoever caused the last thread to snap would be a sorry bastard indeed.

* * *

The sorry bastard was writing reports at its desk in the dorm room. Futotsuki-sensei had come back to the Academy when the tension had settled, which also meant that the substitute teacher was alleviated of his duties. And full of questions.

"I was told you did well at the meeting." Saburota struck up conversation in the mechanical manner of a phrase book when the tapping of the crutches passed the threshold.

"I suppose", Shiro replied in a voice that wasn't the least interested in discussing the matter further: if his roommate caught that, he ignored it adamantly.

"Being able to take swift action in a dire situation is a valuable asset in an exorcist: you should pride yourself on it."

At any other time… But Shiro was not in the mood for this kind of dance.

"Just say what you wanna say and stop beating around the bush." Shiro deposited his sore, grumpy body in the desk chair with a grunt. "You're not any good at talking round anyway."

Saburota closed his notepad, laid down his pencil, and turned his chair so that Shiro had the full, straight-backed frame to look at. The glasses caught the lamplight and obliterated his eyes, but Shiro knew what look they wore. Flat. Grim. Effective. Dead. A look that Shiro mirrored perfectly opposite his interrogator.

"There seems to be a correlation between you and demon attacks", Saburota observed sombrely.

"Demons seem to like me", he returned in stony tones.

"I was told not to sully the family name by speaking of Deep Keep. I was told my cousin died honourably, on duty, killed by demons: in Deep Keep, the most fortified stronghold in Japan." His voice was steady when he spoke. Monotonous. It trailed the dubious tracks Shiro himself had spent almost a year dogging; tracks that did, indeed, lead to Deep Keep. "You went down there. Why?"

Sharp and deceptively polite, like the light reflecting off his glasses: like the retort that slipped Shiro's lips before he could think:

"Taking swift action in a dire situation: that's a good thing, ain't it?"

Saburota's jaw clenched imperceptibly tighter.

"I will not play games with you, Fujimoto-kun. You knew where to go when the attack struck. There is something down there that had to do with it, and I want to know what that is."

Shiro felt the words form out of the burning coals in his chest. It was not fair, or just, or defendable in any way: but Shiro was irritable, sore, hogtied by circumstance, and in a damn foul mood. That can bring out the sadist in anyone.

"Well, you know the rules of Deep Keep better than anyone: no one's allowed to say what's down there."

He wouldn't have done it if it hadn't felt so good. Bad. Good: it felt good in a bad way. It felt like steam pushing its way out an open vent.

"What d-does it take for you t-to take things serious-l-ly?"

Saburota was a good exorcist. Intelligent, efficient, responsible, good-looking: perfect. Too perfect. He was a sheet of spotless ice atop a dark lake; the kind of ice that cracks with a thin, crisp sound that reminds you of glass, and that makes you itch to break it. He possessed outstanding composure, sure: but once he started to stutter… you could hear threads snapping. You could hear ice creaking. And it felt good.

"A lot", Shiro replied. Hints of a cruel smile touched his lips for reasons he couldn't determine; primal reasons beyond the scrutiny of the conscious mind.

"My cousin _died_ ", he said gravely, clenching his hands into fists in his lap as he fought to keep his stutter in check. "With a clean cut-t in his chest: the kind left b-by sword, not talons. You went down in D-deep Keep, without permis-s-sion. With a sword."

"Are you saying you think I'd kill people, senpai…?"

It was _revolting_ , how steady the words were, how smoothly they rolled off his tongue: and at the same time prickling, pulling, compelling – not unlike the thrill of danger.

"I'm not- I'm s-saying you _know_ what happen-n-ned." He clung to his composure, winding himself stiffer in it and hating it; hating the stutter, hating his failure to control it, hating his failure to- "And as your elder, I ord-order you to tell me."

…the thrill… of controlling a person's emotion with words…

" _I have to stop._ " Snaring prey: he was snaring prey, as a demon would. Taunting and prodding and exploiting human emotion and _getting off on it_ – mother of god, since when had he…? "It's not my place to say." Shiro's voice was entirely different as he tried to force nastier instincts in line. "If you have questions, you should take them to higher authority. I'm sorry – about your cousin, and my behaviour." He was. Now that he'd snapped out of it, and realised what he had done, he was truly, genuinely sorry. "I'm trying to quit smoking, it's…" He made a vague gesture with his hand towards the drawer where the cigarettes lay waiting. "It wears on your nerves."

On _his_ nerves…? When he lowered his head in an apologetic bow, it was evident whose nerves had been worse for wear.

It sounds so nice to say the eyes are the windows of the soul. When Saburota's glasses didn't reflect the light, when composure no longer held the façade together, Shiro was reminded why windows often come with blinds.

"I forgive you." Oh, but he was good: the curtains were drawn so fast you'd doubt you actually saw anything. "For this", he added. "I can not forgive your actions during the attack: not until I have-"

A sound as sweet as silver bells and singing choirs: a knock on the door. Shiro wasted no time to grab his crutches, but hopped over on one leg to get it. The timing was perfect, although…

"Good day, Fujimoto-kun. May I enter?"

…it was the last person in the world he would have expected.

"…sure", he said when he found his tongue, and limped aside to let the unexpected visitor in.

"And good day, Fujimoto-kun's roommate. Now, my errand is most urgent…" Shiro couldn't believe his eyes when the demon sank down on his knees, and folded himself forward into a dogeza, forehead resting against the floor. "Please, talk sense into Master Pheles. A servant's word is nothing to him; please, Fujimoto-kun. If it's you, he might listen."

"Uh…" A demon kowtowing before a human for help? He needed a couple of moments to get his footing, now that the world had turned upside down. "What's the matter with him…?"

"My Master is _bored_."

Belial uttered the word at the floor as though it were the name of an ancient calamity that had slept beneath the world for ages and now awakened to engulf it in destruction.

"I see", Shiro said, stroking the stubble on his chin as an excuse to hide his smile. "Pestering his household staff for entertainment, is he?"

"Today, Master decided to _cook_ for his staff _._ " Belial's grave tone indicated that was something Very Bad, though in Shiro's ears it just sounded Very Funny. He would think many things of Mephisto, but that he could cook…?

"Well, seeing as battling demons will be my job one day…" he chuckled. "I'll help ya – just have to buy some… ammunition first."

* * *

He was so winning this bet. Almost a pity, though. The prize wasn't very exciting, but seeing Mephisto climb the walls was something he-

"Ow!"

Shiro cursed and shook his hand, having received quite the shock from the electrically wired doorbell.

" _I suppose a bored Mephisto is a danger to everyone…_ "

"With all due respect to your condition, Fujimoto-kun, that took you quite a while", said the demon that ope-

"Belial-san? I didn't recognise you without moustache."

"His highness' main course burnt it off", Belial explained in a voice that cracked tiny veins in his polite, composed façade. Some part of Shiro pitied him: the very tiny part that didn't find all this hilarious. "Please, come in: I believe his highness is preparing dessert. On behalf of the staff as a whole, I would appreciate if you could prevent his highness from completing it."

The kitchen seemed to have followed the staff's example and gone into hiding when Mephisto's withdrawal symptoms hade made themselves known. All the rooms they passed through had suffered his boredom one way or the other: one had to admire his zest, really, seeing how he had turned the cupola in the parlour into a gravity-defying swimming pool, and managed an almost perfect silverware-replica of the Eiffel Tower in the ballroom.

"Ah." Belial stopped when they reached a smaller version of the Hall of Mirrors in Versailles. "Pardon me, Fujimoto-kun."

And with that, he swept him up bridal-style and stepped onto the hall floor, where all the checkerboard marble tiles seemed to be in disarr-

*di-da-do-do-di-da-do-do, di-da-do-do-di-da-do-do*

"What the _hell_ is this…?" to say shiro's eyes were wide was an understatement, as Belial _danced_ back and forth on floor tiles that gave off _sound_.

"A piano", he replied, completely unfazed as he skipped this-way-and-that, slowly making his way across the hall. "His highness is quite fond of the opening theme of _Shinbatto no bouken_. If played incorrectly, the floor will fall away: we lost two maids and one manservant before we could establish which melody was the right one."

Shiro kept his mouth shut rather than accidentally making Belial miss a step. Yep, a bored Mephisto was a danger to everyone.

"Say, Belial-san…" Past the piano-hall, Shiro decided to ask something that had slipped his mind before, but that had him rather curious when he remembered it. "Have you ever called Samael by name?"

Good thing he hadn't asked in the hall of mirrors: just like the snake demon at Hyakki Yagyou, Belial winced ever so slightly.

"No, Fujimoto-kun, I have not."

"Why?" he inquired as casually as he could, and shifted his satchel of ammunition to appear even more relaxed and not-curious-as-hell.

"I do not see what concern that matter should be for you."

"Then good luck with your master: I'm out."

"Pardon?" Belial turned around to see Shiro stop by a door carved in silver oak, rest his crutches against the wall, and take out his cram school key.

"What, you think demons are the only ones to demand services in return?" His white eyebrows rose over expressionless eyes. "It's just one question: why don't you say his name?"

Belial wasn't exactly happy… but he was also desperate. Desperate, fatigued, and anxious: the schooled, professional face didn't show it, and no restless fingers betrayed it, but Shiro knew. If asked, he would chance a guess it had to do with the imprint: because he actually _knew_.

"No demon would take his highness' name in his mouth", Belial said in curt, unwilling syllables. "It's cursed."

"Cursed? How does a _demon_ have a cursed name?"

At this, the butler's thin lips drew a scornful line on his face.

"Names are powerful things, young man", he replied in a soft, polite voice. "One name may be spoken carelessly by a human, but in a demon's mouth it turns into ash and lye."

"Last question, then." Shiro put his key back in his pocket, signalling that he wasn't going to try Belial's patience much longer. "Why was he given a cursed name?"

The demon's narrow eyes grew wider, as did his smirk.

"The only one to know that would be Lord Satan: why don't you ask his majesty yourself, when his majesty comes for you?" Shiro tried his best… but couldn't keep the cruel statement from hardening his eyes. "For now, I think we will reach the kitchen just in time to try the dessert the Lord's son has made."

Shiro had taken it for miasma at first, but the black smoke trickling over the arced ceiling was precisely that: black smoke. It smelled of something that could have been roasted almonds, or coal.

* * *

The kitchen looked deceptively undisturbed; like a crocodile pretending to be a log. There was a profound lack of drawers and cutlery, though. And people. There wasn't a single person there, save for a tied-up Ukobach chattering protests from among the pots and pans that hung on hooks around the stove. Maybe he had tried to protect his kitchen: maybe he followed the same code of honour as captains that go down with their ships when the rest of the crew flees.

"You're not seriously thinking of serving that to anyone, are you?" Shiro stated to get the attention of the invading chef.

Mephisto's Hello Kitty-clips then came into view from behind one of the stoves. It was followed by a flour-speckled countenance and a sheet pan of… uh… never mind what those were supposed to be.

"And why not?" he asked irritably. One look at his face told Shiro that he probably hadn't slept since the Futotsuki meeting, and that his patience was worn rice paper-thin. Good.

"For one, they seem to be burning holes through the sheet pan." Shiro produced the ammunition from his satchel and held it up for Mephisto to see. "And I figured you'd be more interested in this: latest issue of _Shoujo Comic_ , so fresh from the printing press you can smell the ink." He assumed Mephisto could, even if all he felt was the crusty tang of burnt carbohydrates. Shiro flipped the pages with the smooth elegance of one showcasing products on tv-shop, and watched the sheet pan creak and crinkle like tin foil in Mephisto's polka-dotted oven gloves. "But seeing as you're busy, I'll just take a seat and wait till you're done."

Shiro limped over to fetch a stool from the corner, feeling Mephisto's gaze locked on like laser sight to the magazine in his hand but acting like nothing. He placed himself strategically right next to the oven the demon was abusing, tilted to lean his back against the wall, and flipped open _Shoujo Comic_. This wouldn't take long: he could already hear a faint, pained whine trying to hide under the hum of the stove fan's death rattles. It's true that shared agony is half agony, simply because the other half is comprised of glee.

Two things can generally be said of demons: they indulge unabashedly in every pleasure they desire, and they are masters at temptation.

Two things can generally be said of humans: they fight demons, and shield themselves from their temptations with restraint.

If there is anything unnatural for a demon to do, it is to abstain from pleasure; if there is anything unnatural for a human to do, it is to befriend a demon. And at the peak of the bizarre anomaly that was their friendship, Shiro brought it to a whole new level still: how often do you hear of a human tempting a demon?

"That _has_ to be cheating", Mephisto ground out between clenched teeth as he struggled to keep his hands steady when pouring batter into paper cups. It would appear he was trying to make cupcakes. It would also appear he favoured aprons with lace trimming.

"Oh, I don't think so~ I'm not exactly shoving it under your nose and forcing you to read, am I? You're free to puff on a cigarette in front of me, if you feel this is unfair", he grinned, and threw a glance at Mephisto's unusually twitchy movements as he turned another page.

*poof*

"Have one." At a snap of Mephisto's fingers, a shiny black packet of _Peace_ brand cigarettes plopped down in Shiro's lap. "As long as you do it under the fan, I will even let you smoke indoors."

Shiro could not hide his expression: he was _that_ desperate? O-hoho, bad move, Mephisto.

"The true virtue of mankind is restraint, wasn't that what you said once?" he smiled graciously as he tucked the packet into his chest pocket for future use: for when he would celebrate his crushing victory in their bet. "It's only been two days: I can go without for a week at least. That's, oh, five more days like this…?"

Mephisto sagged over the workbench with an agonized groan, and the curl on his head wilted like a sad flower: with that sweet sight on his retina, Shiro might actually have been able to go five more days.

"Sometimes I wonder which one of us is the demon…"

"Your own fault for imprinting me", Shiro smiled into the pages. " _That's right: gotta ask him about that later, when he's cooled down. He won't be in any talkative mood after he's lost._ "

Meanwhile, Belial was having the time of his life. His jaw was clenched as tightly as Mephisto's, but the convulsive contractions of his throat muscles suggested it wasn't because he was irritated. No, he was laughing: laughing, because neither he nor any other demon would dream of doing anything like this. Demon society, demon rules: takes a reckless human idiot to break them.

"Hm, I think I'll skip this one", Shiro mused aloud and leafed ahead. " _Kaze to Ki no Uta_ looks more like your kind of thing. Are they even allowed to publish stuff like this in girls' magazines…?"

Mephisto's hair curl reared up, like an antenna homing in on good news. Shiro knew perfectly well that _Kaze to Ki no Uta_ was Mephisto's thing, of course: the manga had been refused publishing for nine years because of its… content.

" _That_ , is a tragic and captivating story of _masterful_ proportions; not something an uncultivated plebeian like you can appreciate!"

"Watch where you're waving that spatula, you might get batter on the mag."

Any more now, and there would be steam coming out of his pointy ears: Shiro was enjoying himself – how to say? – _royally_.

"You sadistic little creep…!" he whined, hands clenching in frustration and curl twitching like an eyebrow would.

"At your service", Shiro said, spreading his hands with a pleasant smile: Mephisto's starved eyes followed the colourful magazine like… " _Like a dog with a scrap of dried liver._ " Shiro moved the magazine up… down…right… left… Mephisto followed its every move with transfixed eyes. "You're dripping batter on the floor, your highness", he enlightened sweetly.

Mephisto snapped out of his trance with a mortified look: his ears pulled down, and his mouth turned into the kind of squiggly line you would see on his stick figures. And in his eyes… the last threads snapped. He snatched the magazine out of Shiro's hand and poofed away with a growl that sounded like "you win".

"Well, that's that." Shiro took his glasses off and used the apron Mephisto had left behind to wipe cupcake batter off the glass. "He might sulk for a few days, but he should leave the mansion alone."

"We are deeply grateful, Fujimoto-kun." Belial made quick work of untying Ukobach, who immediately set to salvage what could be salvaged of his beloved kitchen. After listening a moment to the little demon's chatter, Belial resumed: "Would you like to stay for dinner? Ukobach says he will cook whatever you-"

"Thanks", he said, holding up his hands in a placating gesture, "but what I really want right now is a smoke; and whatever he says, I don't trust he'd let me smoke indoors. I have to catch up on studies 'cause of the withdrawal headaches, too. So, uh, good luck with everything, and… hope you can piece the place back together."

"Very well: goodbye, and good luck with your studies." Belial bowed and, with the faintest hint of humour to his voice, added: "I pity any demon that crosses your path when you have graduated."

* * *

Shiro took his time, walking down from the mansion on the summit to the student dorms. With any luck, Saburota would be occupied with work when he got back. Cigarettes taste better when you smoke them outdoors, anyway.

" _Cursed name, huh?_ " Tch, it was really slow going, downhill on crutches: Saburota would be sleeping rather than working. " _Like outpacing thought…_ " Still didn't know what that meant, but… " _Sounds like you'd have personal reasons to help the Order against your dad._ "


	18. Unexpected side effects

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N**  
>  As a child of two teachers, I'm dedicating this chapter to the world's educational staff. =) A little glimpse of what teachers say about their students and superiors when nobody else is around to hear it.

Shiro had never been on good terms with his history teacher. He wasn't quite sure if it started with her dislike for his bleached hair, or that time he had been caught folding origami animals out of his history test. He thought he sat safely at the back of the classroom when he did that, but Maki-sensei was the kind of woman whose eyes somehow seemed to get better with age rather than worse.

All things considered, he found it very strange that his Ansei period essay was returned with a coupon for the school cafeteria stapled onto the last page. That had to be a mistake: but you don't look a gift horse in the mouth, and the cafeteria certainly served classier food than anything he could cook in the dorm kitchen.

* * *

Shiro had no gift for English. It was a sad but undeniable truth that he had accepted and moved on from. Akuri-sensei was well aware that he spent his English classes wishing for the buttons in her shirt to pop off: or so he had to assume, since she had unbuttoned two of them today and actually _smiled_ at him when she walked past and… bent forward… to inspect his writing… or something like that dear god she had boobs the size of honeydews and something about the difference between g and q in minuscule lette-

Akuri-sensei appreciated that he had turned away to avoid getting nose blood on her white shirt, and told him he could keep the napkin.

* * *

"How are you, Shiro-kun?"

It's the small things, the small everyday things, that really hurt when they're taken away from you. How was he? He was far away, living by proxy to keep up the pretence that he was-

"Fine. You two?"

He heard himself speak as if it were someone else. Well, wasn't it? The skin he wore may be the same, but the Shiro in it was different. A prodigy, a paragon; a hero statue coated with a bronze surface to cover the cold stone from which it was hewn.

They sat in the cafeteria between classes, Sen and Midori with their bento boxes and Shiro with the most expensive lunch he had eaten in years. He didn't tell Sen to stop asking when they met like that, though. It hurt, to be treated like nothing had happened; but it helped him act like nothing had. It helped him remember how to act like a normal human being.

"We decided Midori will visit my village over summer", Sen said as if speaking to daydreams and dust motes. She constituted a strange, lonesome little island in the chattering ocean that was the cafeteria.

"That sounds great. Wish I could have a proper summer holiday, but I'm gonna stay here and study."

"I want~" Midori exchanged looks of fevered passion with his food, and didn't seem to notice a word of what had been said. "Do you really like girls, Shiro-kun? Or you just like girls to hit you?"

Then again, it was hard not to notice the rolls of paper sticking out of his nostrils.

"It was my teacher, and she didn't- Well, you could say she hit me. Figuratively." Not the reply the old Shiro would have given. Not the smile the old Shiro would have smiled. " _Caution before comfort_ ", he reminded himself grimly. There were a lot of people in the cafeteria. A lot of people he could hurt, if he didn't guard his heart well enough.

What he had done to Saburota yesterday was proof he couldn't trust himself. He didn't even need to be possessed to cause harm: all he needed was a hint of weakness to wake the predator in the dark corners of his heart. Guard his heart, guard his tongue, guard the people arou-

"Shiiiiirooooo-kuuuun~?" Midori resorted to flicking the cross on his glasses string to gain his attention. Yes, sometimes she was too much like Mephisto for comfort. "Can I taste your food?"

"Oh, sure. Just leave some for me, it's the only time I'll have the chance to eat such fancy stuff."

As if. Midori could eat twice her own weight every day – or something like that. Her table manners were like a vanishing act at the circus, accompanied by a variety of chirping and humming sounds that had Shiro thinking of Mephisto's content purrs when he was being brushed. He had suggested once that maybe she was half hamster and not half fox.

"How come you buy cafeteria food now, suddenly?" Sen asked, taking small, small bites of the contents of her bento box.

"It's the teachers: they like me." And not just the teachers: besides the food, he had been given a lavender pannacotta topped with Scandinavian bilberries on the side, with no explanation whatsoever save a smile and a wink from the cafeteria lady. "No teacher has ever liked me, and now they buy me food. I don't get it."

"What did you do for them, then?"

"Nothing." He cautiously sliced the creamy dessert, trying hard to make his aching fingers hold the spoon. "I improved my grades, but they hardly give stuff like this to every student that puts some muscle into studying. I'm thinking they could be ganging up on me for some practical joke."

It was a possibility. Technically, it was only a month until he graduated; if they were ever going to get revenge on the school's most notorious prankster, they would have to make their move now.

"Shagow of min-g can cova de shun", Midori managed to say through a mouthful – really, a mouth _full_ – of food. "Maybe dey jusch wang ko make Shiwo-kung happy?"

Maybe. All Shiro could think of was how she chose just the right words: the shadow of mind can cover the sun. Did she even think when she said it? Or did she act on the same kind of instinct, inherent in demons, that he had felt? She worried for him, he knew that, and still…

Shiro looked at her stuffed cheeks and content eyes: a mask. That he made her wear. To make it easier to wear his own.

It's the small, everyday things that really hurt. Pretending… hurt.

* * *

His maths teacher didn't chew his ass off for the 70% he scored at the test. The hastily written physics report he had handed in last week came back with a not-very-good-but-better-than-it-deserved grade. And when Shiro was about to exit the classroom after demonology class, Kohu-sensei discreetly passed him a small paper bag.

"Sensei, what is-?"

"Why don't you come to the teachers' break room when you finish for the day, hm?" she suggested, her smiling eyes framed by merry wrinkles.

"Uh…?"

That's it: it _was_ some sort of payback the teachers had planned for him. And yet it was far too obvious to summon him to the break room like tha- What if he'd gotten into trouble somehow? What if somebody had ratted on him for something he'd done back in the day when he had time to be a nuisance? No; why would they be so strangely kind to him if that were the case…?

Meanwhile, Kohu-sensei left him with his paranoid musings and the smell of homemade daifuku from the paper bag. Shiro fumbled to get the door open without dropping his crutches, to hop after her and ask what this was all about, but ended up almost colliding with his Aria teacher instead. Shit. Goggles-sensei may be an Aria but she had a very "hands on" approach to students that didn't pay attention.

"S'cuse me, sensei, I need to-"

"Is it true?"

It was always difficult to read Goggles-sensei's face, or what was left of it: but this time the lidless, staring eyes matched her speechless voice perfectly.

"I don't think I know what you mean, Go- uh, Nao-sensei", he confessed with an unsteady little hop to get his crutches in a better position.

"Did you make Sir Pheles wear a… a _suit_ to the personnel meeting?"

"Oh. Well, yes." That's right: Mephisto would be wearing normal clothes now. "For a week, that is."

"Just a week?" she said absentmindedly, and the goggles she was nicknamed after moved as her forehead crinkled. Then she hurried along, mumbling something that sounded like "I need to borrow a camera".

* * *

He would not believe it. He would _not_ believe that this… that all these weird things and teachers suddenly liking him, was because Mephisto was wearing something that didn't look like he had stolen it from a circus.

…but curiosity won't be stilled by anything less than certainty. The teachers' break room was a place he had, for natural reasons, avoided at all costs. He had some remote idea that alarms would go off the moment he set foot inside the door, triggered by lingering karmic traces of all the things he had gotten away with over the years.

No alarms went off, and he successfully managed to ease the door shut without sound. It could still be a prank. Shiro used very small, very careful hops to transport himself inside the antechamber quietly.

The room wasn't very big. It contained one rack for outdoors shoes and one for slippers, and the entirety of the left wall was covered by a large set of named lockers for teachers to leave notes and documents for each other. The opposite wall had an equally large notice board, where Shiro spotted several yellowed newspaper articles about the school, and photographs of the staff taken at jubilees and graduation ceremonies. There was also a calendar, in which someone had marked today's date with a bright red circle that did nothing to put his suspicions to rest. Something _was_ up.

"Teaching would be a lot more enjoyable without students." That was Futotsuki-sensei's voice from behind the door to the actual break room. He sounded unusually… dejected. Not like his calm, reassuring self.

"Anything we can help you with, Futotsuki-kohai?"

And that would be Kohu-sensei, the demonology teacher.

"You can help me hang them from a washing line by their eyelids", he grumbled.

"That class again?"

"That class again." His sigh was punctuated with the sound of papers being tossed on a table. "What will become of society when our generation is gone, Kohu-senpai? What will become of Japan when we leave the reins to blockheads that can't even draw protective circles?"

"With any luck, we'll be dead before we find out", she replied, and Shiro couldn't really tell if it was a joke or not. "I won't mind: I lived long enough to witness a miracle. Sir Pheles in a suit. I still can't quite believe it."

"Neither can I." Gokuro-sensei sounded far from his usual, stammering, stage-frighted self in P.E. class. "For the first time, I left salary negotiations with a smile on my lips!"

"Though not with raised salary." Watanabe-sensei, Shiro's maths' teacher…? _Everyone_ was there?

"Raised salary? Why don't you have your graduate students calculate the probability for that on the spring exams, Watanabe-kohai?" Maki-sensei butted in with a smile in her voice. "Or is it more than five decimals from zero…?"

"If I do that, my salary will be more than five decimals from zero", he chuckled. Shiro had to hop closer to the door to be sure he heard that right. Maths teachers could _chuckle_ …?

"I wouldn't have cared if he had cut my pay in half", Gokuro-sensei continued in a voice that bordered on religious rapture. "So many times I've wanted to stuff that cravat into his mouth…"

Muffled laughter from beyond the door agreed unanimously to the statement.

"At least you can blink." Goggles-sensei's strong voice was, for the first time Shiro could recall, tinted with amusement. "I have to stare at that hideous getup whether I like it or not: if it were up to me, I'd shove those tights right down there with the cravat."

"No matter what comes out of your mouth, Nao-senpai, all I hear is different ways to get Sir Pheles' pants off", Ando-sensei said in the driest, most disapproving tone Shiro had ever heard from the Dragoon instructor.

"Well, you can't deny he's a handsome devil – not after today's meeting", she laughed. "For once I was glad I can't blink."

" _Goggles-sensei…?_ " Shiro would have to severely re-evaluate his thoughts on his Aria teacher.

"That's a very inappropriate way to speak of one's superiors – not to mention a demon", Ando-sensei said curtly. "What kind of values do we teach students by saying such things?"

"Oh, come now, Ando-kohai! Had it been a _Lady_ Pheles you would have said the exact same thing!" Kohu-sensei teased merrily. "Let women have their unattainable dreams: we're merely crinklier versions of the teenage girls we tutor, after all."

…Shiro would have to re-evaluate his thoughts on his demonology teacher, too.

"Teenage girls? More like hens around a rooster. Did you even notice that you agreed to another two hours of unpaid extracurricular work per week? Or were you too busy admiring his waistline?"

"Well, Ando-kohai: did you notice that you agreed to cut down the budget for practice range ammunition with five hundred thousand yen last month~?" said Toshio-sensei with a deceptive sweetness that was very unlike the strict Knight. "What did _you_ admire that had you so distracted?"

"Admire? There's a reason we use bullets and not words to negotiate with demons", he grumbled. "And I could put one right between that smirking clown's eyes."

"And that's not an inappropriate way to speak of your superiors?" Goggles-sensei jabbed with a chuckle.

"An ordinary bullet", the Dragoon instructor clarified. "He would regenerate that. Then I could shoot him again: sooner or later, when I run out of bullets, he will have to buy more."

"I doubt it would make him inclined to buy you any more ammunition, but I do like the idea. While you're at it, see if you can get him to approve a purchase of new course literature in history: time doesn't stand still, even if Sir Pheles appears to think so."

"Speaking of time, Maki-senpai: are you certain Fujimoto-kun will come?" Akuri-sensei was the one asking that? Something stirred in Shiro's closed heart that told him it might pay off to try harder in English class. If he could make her say his name with that kind of voice again he just might suffer another nosebleed.

"He will", Maki-sensei confirmed with a kind of dry, humorous note in her voice. "As surely as civil unrest follows famine, that blonde delinquent goes wherever he can stir up a ruckus."

"He has improved greatly, though", Toshio-sensei – of all people, _Toshio-sensei?_ – joined in. "Both in sword technique and in character." Then he chuckled. "I wonder, could it be that it takes one demon to tame another? I'm quite sure his change came about after Sir Pheles began tutoring him."

"One evil cancels out another? Maybe. I wouldn't mind if that kind of change began to show in Sir Pheles, too. I really do hope to get a week's vacation – _proper_ vacation, not vacation with paperwork attached – to visit my grandchildren."

"Good evening, Fujimoto-kun." The voice came from behind, and made Shiro jump where he stood. When he turned around, his Anti-demon pharmacology teacher had just entered the antechamber.

"Good evening, Matsuri-sensei." He began the endeavour of untying his shoelaces and pretended he had just arrived. "It took a while to get here. I-"

"Let me help you with that. It's the least I can do." It was more surprise than gratitude that made him surrender the task of getting his shoes off to her. "I didn't believe you were the one behind it, at first, but then I remembered your Esquire exam in the Hakkoda mountains, and it occurred to me: who else could pull off something that outlandish?" She cast a quick glance and a smile up at him. "Exorcising a naga from a wok pan: has me smiling every time I think about it."

When Shiro entered with Matsuri-sensei, he found that he was surprised to see his teachers there. He had heard them through the door, sure, but part of him had believed it was strangers impersonating their voices. Really, Goggles-sensei had a thing for Mephisto?

The break room was classy, as everything about True Cross Academy was. It featured a smaller version of the panorama windows in Mephisto's office, and furniture that was dressed in lush, mauve leather that complimented the white walls and gave off an air of sophisticated cleanliness. Shiro couldn't remember feeling so out of place since he had testified at the hearing in Headquarters over Christmas. Even more so when Akuri-sensei approached him in the downpour of _thank yous_ and handed him a flower bouquet the size of an akita.

"Thank you, Akuri-sensei." He tried to get a good grip on the flowers without dropping his crutches, but that was no easy thing. "Thank you everyone", he said through the thick smell of carnations, dahlias, and some yellow flower that seemed dead set on getting swallowed.

"I think it's better if we find a vase for them, Aki-chan", Matsuri-sensei said with a smile. "Fujimoto-kun has his hands full already."

An adorable blush crept up on Akuri-sensei's cheeks when she remembered the crutches: crutches that Shiro was awkwardly supporting in the crook of his arm. She hurriedly excused herself and took the bouquet back, more or less hiding behind it. Both female teachers left for the staff kitchen to find a vase and, after a quick reminder from Futotsuki-sensei, brew some tea.

"How is your nose, Fujimoto-kun?" Kohu-sensei asked with a knowing smile once the English teacher was out of earshot. Why did she smile like that? Wasn't she, like, 64 years old? Were 64 year-olds allowed to insinuate things like that…?

"Um…"

"It was probably worth it." Maki-sensei joined her colleague in the smiling as the awkwardness of it all painted the tips of Shiro's ears red. "I'm sure you would pay attention in my class too, if I were younger and better equipped."

One of the few joys old people have left in life is to make young people uncomfortable; and by the age of 60, they have all the experience they need to make the most of it. Enough to make the red heat spread from Shiro's ears to his cheeks.

"Not bad, to make young men blush at your age, Maki-kohai", Kohu-sensei tittered merrily and patted her approval on her colleague's shoulder. "Ah, poor Fujimoto-kun: it's not easy to be a man."

"So many drawbacks right from birth", the history teacher concluded with an impish glimmer in her eyes that completely jammed Shiro's speech mechanism.

"That's why we call them the yokai yakuza." Toshio-sensei appeared behind the two old ladies with a wide grin and a tray full of teacups. "She was just as bad when I was a student", he informed, nodding his head in Maki-sensei's direction. "But prettier to look at."

An incredulous smile grew on Shiro's lips as Toshio-sensei retreated from the mock slaps and began laying the high-legged, Western table for tea. Teachers were completely different when they weren't teaching…

"Now, regale us with the tale behind this miracle", Watanabe-sensei said as they all seated themselves while Akuri-sensei poured them tea. The humongous flower bouquet spilled over the edges of a deep tureen on the middle of the table, and the shorter teachers almost disappeared from view behind it. "How did you convince Sir Pheles to wear sensible clothing?"

"Well, he's a demon: he loves gambling. I bet that I could go longer without smoking than he could go without manga, anime and games. No way he could win that."

A tidal wave of giggles and snorting chuckles – and a weird, hiccupping laughter from Matsuri-sensei – swept through the break room.

"I knew it! Hahahaha! With all those children's toys he keeps on his desk!"

" _He_ keeps-?" Akuri-sensei, who was by far the youngest of the teachers, looked from one to the other in confusion. "I thought they belonged to his children…?"

There was an abrupt silence, punctuated by each and every teacher displaying a face of deep, heart-freezing terror.

"Miniature Pheleses: god help us all…"

"Imagine their chattering."

"Imagine their _clothing_."

"Imagine the extra hours of unpaid babysitting."

"Look at it from the bright side", Goggles-sensei grinned, painting the picture of a maniacal killer on her damaged features. "Great practise for the students."

When all tears were wiped and all cramping stomachs at ease, Akuri-sensei shyly returned to the matter:

"But, if he doesn't have children…? I'm sure I saw little children's drawings on his desk once."

"Don't you know, Aki-chan?" Ando-sensei said, wearing a much brighter look on his face than before. Figured. "Sir Pheles always draws on the back of the protocol at meetings: that's why he looks so concentrated."

Akuri-sensei looked even cuter with laughter tinting her cheeks pink – and her chest bounced in a most inviting way. Unfortunately, the sight of her now conjured up images of Shiro's history teacher. Yokai yakuza indeed...

"Still, he was a lot more concentrated than we were at this last meeting", Goggles-sensei chuckled into her teacup and took a sip. "You did a great job there, Fujimoto-kun. He should wear clothes like that more often."

"He really should. For forty years I've seen him wear nothing but that ghastly clown costume: I never thought I would witness something like this before I retire."

"There is another tale behind this miracle that I would like to hear." Futotsuki-sensei always looked, and sounded, so very calm: Shiro couldn't quite fuse that impression with the irritated hanging-blockhead-students-by-their-eyelids-sensei he had eavesdropped on. "And that is the tale of how a teenage boy earned the respect of a centuries-old demon."

The statement was met with a chorus of low hums and nods, and Shiro instantly wished he were someplace else.

"I don't know about respect…" He scratched the back of his head and tried not to squirm under their eyes. "Most of the time we just get on each other's nerves, and make sport of it. That's how the bet came about. That's how most things come about. I figure…" Shiro wet his lips, not sure what words to put on it. "I treat him the same as I would treat anyone else, and he- Well, obviously, I don't know what he's like around other people, but he pretty much acts the same towards me as I do towards him. If anything, we share a mutual disrespect for each other. We seem to…" Shiro fumbled for words as if they were windblown leaves. "…fit together." Wrong words. "I mean, we make odd friends, but good friends. That's it", he concluded awkwardly. "That's the tale behind the miracle."

They all looked at him as if they hadn't understood a word. Well, he wasn't sure he had understood explanation himself.

"That… is something I never thought I would witness before I retire", Kohu-sensei said with soft amazement, cup forgotten in her hand halfway to her mouth.

"Me neither: Futotsuki-senpai, are you sure he isn't related to your clan?"

"I'll be damned." Toshio-sensei's large, calloused Knight's hand landed on Futotsuki-sensei's shoulder. "You were right: a demon charmer he is."

"A what?" The reactions around the table did nothing to settle Shiro's unease. Astonishment is easy to recognise, but it's harder to determine whether the cause for it is something good or bad.

"It is what it sounds like, Fujimoto-kun", the Tamer teacher said with a reassuring look. "Someone with a natural talent for handling demons. I said it the first class we had together, remember? You have the makings of an excellent Tamer, and an exceptional exorcist. What I saw between you and Sir Pheles at the meeting with my clan was nothing short of a miracle. In six semesters, you have come closer to him than we have in twenty, thirty, or even forty years. We", he gestured at the staff of teachers, "teach what demons are, what they do, how they can be fought; all from a human perspective. But _you_ ", he leaned towards Shiro with a proud smile, as if sharing a treasured secret. "You understand demons as a demon would, and that makes you exceptional. That makes you someone even Sir Pheles would respect, and makes you unlike any other student we have at True Cross Academy. It is a gift, a true gift, and an asset that exorcists worldwide will envy you."

Each well-meant word was a bullet ricocheting with jarring dissonance against the truth he kept shielded in his heart. Fujimoto Shiro, Satan's vessel: unlike any other student at the Academy indeed.

"You honour me, Futotsuki-sensei", he said through an empty smile, steeling his façade against the admiring gazes that shone on him: shielding the shadow of his mind against the sun. "You all do. Thank you."

A smile is a dagger: a slow dagger, slipping in between your ribs, not noticed until it strikes your heart.

" _I just never thought… the smile would be my own..._ " The weight of loneliness is heaviest in a crowd of people, and heavier still when the crowd applauds the act you put up to hide it: heaviest of all are the corners of your mouth, when you keep the act going. The slowest death is the smile that kills you every time you wear it. " _Does everything you say come true, Midori-chan?_ "


	19. The clothes make the man

Seeing is believing, they say. Not that Shiro was _that_ curious. Mephisto was apparently not sulking over the lost bet, and he had questions that needed to be asked: in all, plenty of reasons to pay a visit to the large, classy office. Plenty of reasons; none being that he was curious to see if Mephisto really looked _that_ good in normal clothes.

"Oi. What spell have you worked on the teachers, you old goat?" he greeted as he pushed one of the double doors open with his shoulder and hopped in on his crutches.

"I can only think of the one called 'salary', but other than that: none", came the answer: not from behind the desk, but from the panorama windows overlooking most of True Cross Town.

Shiro blinked. He shouldn't be surprised anymore. He'd seen Mephisto the Demon King, Mephisto the Failed Chef, Mephisto the Pampered Dog… Weird as they were, clashing as they did, those had been perfectly real sides of Mephisto: _this_ … this wasn't Mephisto. This was someone who could actually grab the spot as The Most Desirable Man in Europe and East Asia. Without even breaking a sweat.

"Like what you see~?"

It was definitely Mephisto when he opened his mouth, though; not to mention he gestured at himself like one presenting a five-star buffet.

"And for all your talk of dressing properly, you keep that hidden at the far back of your wardrobe?" Shiro stared at the tailor-fitted black suit. It cut the demon's slender shape a most complimenting silhouette against the window. Burgundy shirt, black tie, black dress shoes and white spatterdashes… The clothes certainly make the man. "Seriously, did you get anything done at the personnel meeting? As I've understood it, all the female teachers were busy gawking at your waist and legs and god knows what."

And Shiro had the strangest idea… that maybe that was another reason Mephisto dressed the way he did. That clownish outfit drew one's attention like a nail in the eye, but at least the weirdness of it let you keep your head: when he dressed like this, without that disturbance to throw the effect off, there was a magnetizing air about him that drew your attention and derailed your thoughts at the same time. _Distracting_ didn't even cover half of it.

"Oh, I knew where their eyes lingered~" Look at that smug face, when he came sauntering over from the windows: and how he _walked_ …

" _Those ugly pants really hide it well normally…_ " Mephisto walked with Midori's smooth, subconscious sensuality, and the innate elegance of a king. No human could ever mimic that. " _I don't hear a word he's saying, that's kinda nice… I should probably snap out of whatever-this-is, though…_ "

"-can blame them?" Mephisto's amused lilt phased into his ears. "Indeed, the smell of pheromones in that room was so thick I had to turn the air conditioning on. Poor things, tied like dogs on leashes too short for them to reach the bone~"

"And Nao-sensei is probably off buying a camera", Shiro chuckled, hopping forward on his crutches to occupy one of the least antique and least brick-hard chairs. "Now I know why you dress like a clown normally: couldn't run a business looking like this."

Yes, of course. Dressed for business, eh? Wearing his principal's uniform, he looked like a clown: wearing this, he looked like a devil. Sleek, black deceit robed in perfect propriety. You couldn't run a business with the Vatican looking like that.

"Looking like…?" the demon led on with a flirtatious smirk: dog or humanoid, being stroked along the grain was something he appreciated.

Shiro assumed a sceptical look. Saying Mephisto wasn't handsome in that outfit would be lying, but admitting that he was would make his head so large every passage in the Academy would have to be converted into double doors.

"Right: I will only say this once, so perk up those big ears of yours." Shiro was, after all, there to ask help: stroking the dog a bit before he asked couldn't hurt. He braced himself in the chair… "You look really good in that." …and Mephisto's ego filled the office like the blaring of a brass orchestra: loud, piercing, and drowning out everything else within a fifty metre radius. Really, it took some effort not to burst out laughing. "Now, if you wouldn't mind getting back down on earth, I've got stuff I need to ask."

Mephisto disappeared, and reappeared lounging in a chair right in front of him, looking very snug and comfortable in his inflated Ego.

"Do tell…?"

"The imprint", Shiro commenced in business tones. "Can it change me physically?"

"No." And all the same, he raised a cautioning finger. White gloves? Classy bastard. "However, your imprint is not like the ones observed in the Futotsuki, and diverging effects can not be ruled out." His wrist tipped the finger forward to point the question at Shiro: "Since you ask, I take it you have reason to suspect it would have changed you physically?"

Shiro related the attack on Kiridani Ryokan from his point of view. He related his wrestling with the tengu and how he had not only broken its neck but also cracked its beak with his bare hands.

"I shouldn't be able to do that", he finished and held up his hands in front of him. "And ever since, I've had this dull ache in my fingers. The imprint was the only explanation I could think of."

"That is… interesting." The demon rose to examine his hands, possibilities flitting across the green eyes as they scrutinized them closely. Mephisto's gloved fingers turned and pushed and prodded, and Shiro confirmed where there was pain and where there wasn't; he asked him to bend and flex the fingers, and describe how it felt and if it hurt. "Interesting indeed." In the blink of an eye, the demon's fingers had left his hand for his wrist, and pulled him up from the chair and into a one-armed embrace. The other hand let go, and rose in a familiar gesture. "In the mood for a little trip~?"

*poof!*


	20. King and castle

"Gueh, I hate travelling like that." If Mephisto hadn't held a supporting arm around him, Shiro would've been on the ground by now. "Where are we?"

They were outdoors, that much was for certain. It was dark, and light rain quickly turned the warm summer night into a chilly, miserable place to be. Shiro untangled himself from the demon and let his eyes wander. He didn't recognise any of his surroundings.

"What is this place…?"

He squinted up at the towering shape through the raindrops on his glasses: a huge building cut its black silhouette into clouds lit faintly by city light, but the city was some distance away.

"Wawel castle is its name: one of the finest cultural treasures Poland has to offer – that and _ptasie mleczko_. Not that you are normally inclined to follow advice of any kind", he added with a meaning glance, "but I strongly recommend that you stay where you are for a while."

Mephisto snapped his fingers again, and the rain-dimmed light reflected off spotless glass and polished metal. High up in the sky above Wawel castle, there now hung a gigantic pendulum topped by an old-fashioned pocket watch of same proportions.

"I ask you a simple yes-or-no question, and you spirit me away to Poland?"

But Mephisto was already out of earshot, carried up to the top of the pendulum by his bat familiar. Four more glimmering shapes – which, after a quick wiping of his glasses, turned out to be huge skeleton keys – hovered around it at each compass point. Everything about this spoke of magic, and Shiro couldn't help but wonder what this looked like from the city across the water. Could people see this...? Or would that require a mashou?

Then Mephisto touched down on the giant pocket watch, and in that instant the machinery of the watch began turning slowly.

"Acht, sieben, sechs…" There was a compression of the air around the castle, a shift in density that made Shiro's eardrums quiver and hurt. And then it reached him, from far-away distances not measured in metres or feet: the muted rustle of Earth breathing. "...fünf, vier, drei…" The arms on the clock face turned _backwards,_ and something- "Zwei, eins, null: Zurückdrehen!"

Shiro couldn't see anything in the dark, but he heard it. The ghostly sounds of mortar crumbling and stone shifting in the castle, as if it were a living creature stretching in its sleep. Ah, no; not sound. Not real sound, carried by compressions in the air: those were echoes, transported through the distant memories of the castle itself.

"Very little change since then, I admit." The rain stopped abruptly: the watch and the keys were gone, and Mephisto had landed beside him with the pink umbrella held over their heads while he admired his work. "But it's the inside that matters, as humans are so fond of telling themselves. Shall we?"

"Aren't you forgetting something?"

Mephisto halted, gave the matter some thought, and snapped his fingers: Shiro's crutches joined their company in a cloud of pink smoke.

Shiro followed him through a grand archway that seemed more like a small tunnel: and halfway through, they passed _something_.

There was no word for what it actually was. The best way of describing it was the feeling of walking from a sweltering hot summer day into a heavily air-conditioned room; or from a freezing winter night into the organic warmth of a house heated by fire. Something washed over Shiro's body, shocked it on a molecular level, and left it with the sensation that it had passed through an invisible barrier and ended up someplace vastly different.

Out on the courtyard on the other side, Mephisto brought his umbrella down: the rain had stopped. And it was mid-day.

" _Sure, he's the King of Time, but…_ " But time travelling was only done in manga and anime. " _This is freakin' insane…_ "

Shiro squinted and shaded his eyes as he looked around. Sunlight warmed the wear-smoothened pavement under their feet, bounced off the gilded tip of the umbrella, and painted the courtyard arcades an eye-watering white.

"Okay, that was cool", he admitted, spotting the smug, inquiring look on Mephisto's face. "When is this…?"

"Sixteen hundred and four: Sigismund the third is on the throne, and had the great taste to commission a Baroque style for the reparations after the fire a few years ago."

…freakin' insane.

"Like that pocket dimension of yours, but a pocket in time? Around the castle?" Shiro's head turned every direction to take in what the world looked like in the seventeenth century.

"A tremendously simplified explanation, but yes. A pocket of sorts."

"Can you do the same thing the other way? Like, winding us into the future?"

That would be even cooler. He had, though he wouldn't admit it, checked who Jules Verne was after Mephisto had frowned upon his lack of education. And if Verne wrote about going to the moon nearly a hundred years before it happened, then maybe in the future there would be things that only existed in fiction today. Like teleporters and clones.

" _A_ future", the demon corrected. "There are infinite possible futures branching from the present, each one shaped by choices made in the fleeting moment you call now."

Shiro understood that. Part of it. On a vague, theoretical level: as soon as the human mind is confronted with the concept of "infinite", thoughts tend not to go too far into understanding.

"So… you can't travel to the future?"

"Who do you take me for? I can travel to any future", he snorted. "It's bothersome, however. Even more bothersome to explain to a linear mind. The path to the future is strewn with endless forks, and constantly shifting such: arriving at _exactly_ the future you want is nigh impossible. The past is much easier: each dimension has only one, and it is fixed."

"And how many dimensions are there?"

Mephisto granted him an amused look before he twisted his brain one more turn:

"One for each branch of the future."

* * *

The porch swung open for them on heavy, creaking hinges, and they walked right into the castle. Not a single servant to greet them. Not a single guard to question what the two most bizarre guests were doing there.

And it was so quiet. The air in there was completely still, the way you could imagine a grave chamber to be. Their footfalls echoed strangely in the painted, coffered ceilings of the lifeless rooms and gave a not entirely pleasant feeling that there was someone walking behind them, even if the castle… was completely devoid of life.

"Looks like a place you could live in", Shiro observed as they walked through yet another extravagant room, where the tiled floor was polished like a mirror and the carvings on the great stone hearth reached higher than the doors.

"So I did, for a short time." With a snap of his fingers, all the candelabras flared up to light their way through a grand ceremonial hall hung with tapestries that each must have weighed at least twice as much as Shiro. "It was quite pleasant, as long as you had your own chef. The Polish cuisine is so…" A grimace marred his attempts at maintaining his refined manners. "…Polish."

"Awful?"

"No – and yes. The food tastes wonderful, but it looks like it has been eaten once before."

Shiro laughed aloud, and felt the eyes of gossiping maidens, working carpenters and Oriental sultans turn to him from the woven images. That wasn't natural silence.

* * *

By the time Shiro neared the top of a long – far too long, if you were on crutches – staircase, he was breathing heavily. Mephisto simply waited at the second floor, one hand on his hip and the other on the handle of the umbrella, whose tip rested against the floor: put a frame around him and he would look just like the castle's other royal paintings. He was already two-dimensional, even.

"Think you could light me a smoke like that?" Shiro snapped his fingers the way Mephisto had done to light the candelabras. "C'mon, it's not your house", he tried, but knew it was a lost cause when that inrun-frown formed over the green eyes. Oh well. If the cause was lost anyway: "For a cripple facing fate uncertain: have you not the heart in you to ease my agony a tad before the final verdict falls…?"

"Oh my; the beast can talk?" Mephisto picked up on his theatrics with feigned astonishment. "And where is that nimble tongue when you aren't making mockery of it?" he asked, tilting his head to the side with an amused look.

"At the far back of the wardrobe, with your suit", Shiro smiled back and hopped up the last few steps. "Right, you unhelpful bastard: can I at least have my lighter back?" Poofing his lighter away had become so much habit that the demon did it subconsciously every time Shiro entered his office: Shiro had a vague memory that he had thought of putting it in a different pocket. He really should do that.

"Straight back into the wardrobe, is it?" Mephisto tapped a forefinger on his lip contemplatively. "We have one more flight of stairs to ascend; after that, you can have your lighter back."

"There's a catch, isn't there?" Shiro stated with an eyebrow raised. "I don't trust that smile of yours." Especially not after his humiliating loss in the bet: the only thing Mephisto was ever generous with was payback.

"And wisely so~" And with that, the demon turned on his heel and led the way through the next line of lavish rooms. "Do you find anything amiss with Wawel castle, Shiro?"

"There's no people", he said, casting glances left and right at huge portraits of stiff, royal Poles that ought to live in the castle right now.

"Quite so, quite so. Any idea why…?"

"'cause they're all- _That's_ the staircase?" Shiro stared at Mephisto, and at the very high steps of the stairs behind the door he had opened. " _Oh you smug little bastard…_ " Not just a staircase: a tower staircase. On crutches. "…any chance I could get you to poof me to the top?"

"You certainly could; but then you don't get your lighter." He tipped his upper body in a mock bow, accompanied by a sparkling grin. "I'll hear your answer at the top~"

*poof!*

Shiro started climbing the stairs with a stoic promise that he wouldn't let Mephisto get any fun out of this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N**
> 
>  
> 
>  **Ptasie mleczko** means "unobtainable delicacy", a chocolate-covered meringue manufactured by the Wedel confectionary company (whose logo really does look like Willy Wonka's) since 1936.


	21. Guesswork galore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol I'm flattered to be able to say that there have been misunderstandings on this one before, so I'll just poke my head in and say that the poetry in this chapter is an original creation by me. =)

Shiro finished climbing the stairs with stumble-bruised shins a snarled promise that Mephisto would pay dearly for this.

"Lighter. Now. Man, I need a smoke…!"

"Look at you, all flushed and short of breath: perfect." Oh yes, bloody perfect; Shiro had half a mind to wipe his forehead with Mephisto's silk tie. "You can have the lighter, as promised." He felt the cool weight of the lighter reappear in his trouser pocket. "But I'm afraid smoking is out of the question."

"You think so? 'cause I think you knew that well beforehand, asshole", Shiro grumbled.

"Your assumption is quite correct, although your language is not."

Shiro was not in the best of moods, but he would admit that the room was not a suitable place for open flame. The top of the tower held a laboratory: the kind of which you could imagine in horror stories. But everything was new. Brand new. No lingering crust of dried blood, no rust-eaten scalpels littering smeared examination tables: everything was neat and tidy and… old. It was centuries since instruments like those had been in use, and yet they looked like they had been manufactured yesterday. It was a weird clash of impressions.

There were wooden racks from floor to ceiling containing empty vials, and other racks of full vials with freshly scribbled labels. Beakers and metal utensils were kept neatly organised in cupboards with stainless glass doors, and bright sunlight glinted off steel armature and polished stone floor.

"You were faster than I had expected", Mephisto said over his shoulder: he stood at a workbench with at least a dozen vials and instruments gyrating in the air around him, each busy with its own part of some experiment. "Be good and strip while I add the finishing touches."

"What?" No, he must've heard that wrong…

"Strip. Undress. Remove articles of clothing from your person." Mephisto swaggered across the room with one hand on his hip and a smug trademark smirk. "Purely for scientific reasons, of course~" He ran Shiro's tie between his fingers in a manner not even remotely scientific.

"Of course it is. And in purely scientific interest", he yanked his tie out of the demon's grasp, "I wanna know why. You're asking me to strip-"

"That would be convenient, yes."

"-and we're in seventeenth century Poland-"

"Quite correct."

"-and how the fuck does that have anything to do with my imprint?"

"Heated your temper along with your body, did it~? Why, we are here to determine what is happening to your body, of course; and the examination will yield more reliable readings if it has just recently been active." He gestured at the tower room the stood in. "This laboratory is better equipped than any modern-day facility I have access to for performing an examination of that kind. By the way…" Mephisto tilted Shiro's head up with a finger under his chin and looked closely at him. "You are out of breath, but you aren't _fatigued_ – am I correct? Your legs and arms still feel fresh and strong?"

After a moment's thinking, Shiro nodded.

"I may already have an idea… But I want to be absolutely certain." Mephisto whipped around and returned to the workbench and the… stuff… that he was assembling. "Take a seat once you have removed shirt and trousers, the preparations are almost complete. I will also require a blood sample, so do make use of your Doctor training while you're at it."

Seat? The only seat in the room was the large examination table in the middle. It came with some highly suspicious leather straps for securing, well, say, a human body.

"Purely scientific…" Shiro huffed, leaned his crutches against the table and started undoing his shirt buttons. "What is this place anyway? How can this", he threw a glance around the laboratory, "be better equipped than a modern-day hospital?"

"Recall that question I gave you earlier, to ponder while climbing?"

" _No answers, only more questions: isn't that just typically you?_ " Shiro tossed his shirt and tie over a wooden armature for rigging up vials in junction, and picked among the metal instruments on a tray for one that could substitute a syringe. "You can rewind time, but not for the dead", he said, settling for an early version of a scalpel. "Have you got any antiseptics?"

Watching Mephisto at work was entertainment in its own right: all his materials hovered obediently around him, like a swarm of glittering hummingbirds.

" _I never pictured him doing anything but paperwork…_ " And with the practiced ease of a concert pianist, gloved fingers picked vials and tubes out of the air without ever forcing his eyes to stray from his work. It was like being smack in the middle of a fairy ta-

Shiro was called back to the present - or past? - by a bottle that nudged his arm. The label was tastefully unintelligible, but there was no mistaking the sharp smell of surgical alcohol.

"Thanks. …how come you can do _that_ when you can't even bake cupcakes?"

"And who are you to talk? You never even tried my cupcakes." Mephisto added another drop of something purple into something pale blue.

"I'd rather try that", Shiro said flatly, and nodded at the test tube whose contents now gave off a sharp, agitated hiss accompanied by fizzy bubbles.

"Philistine." Something soft, but with high velocity, smacked Shiro in the back of his head: a small roll of linen cloth. "No sense of manners, no taste in clothes, no taste in cuisine." The demon clicked his tongue dismissively against his teeth and snapped his fingers; across the room, the door of a heavy cupboard swung open. "I have known Vikings better cultured than you, and their sense of culture was rather crude – not to mention unhygienic. I'm almost done; are you?"

A clean, empty beaker came gliding out of the cupboard to place itself neatly on the examination table. Imagine being able to do everything like that: never rummage around drawers to find what you were looking for, never take one magazine out of the bookshelf and have a dozen others fall out on the floor, just do everything you wanted with zero effort.

"It's simply not fair that demons have magic", he complained as he laid his scalpel by the small glass vessel and wet a strip of cloth with antiseptics. It had never bothered him before, that humans had to do everything by hand, but since he'd gotten to know Mephis-

Shiro's hands slowed to a still as his thoughts stumbled over an unexpected contradiction.

" _Why… would he take an interest in alchemy, when he has magic…?_ "

"Neither is it fair that only humans get their own bodies", Mephisto pointed out. "Were you done answering the question…?"

The drawled lilt expected Shiro to add something more, to have thought one step ahead, but gave no hint as to what he should have thought of. Shiro went back to preparing the scalpel again.

"Sorry, I was too busy not falling down to think any further."

"I didn't intend for you to think further while walking up~" The guessing game was still on, huh? "One thread at a time the weft unfolds: this room itself is the other piece of the puzzle." Mephisto gestured around them while hovering the finished equipment and chemicals to a metal stand, of sorts, beside the table. "I can rewind time, but I can't bring back the dead: so…?"

Shiro cut a little deeper into the crook of his arm than he had intended, and blood welled up in generous amounts.

"You turned to alchemy." Red drops trickled into the beaker, and all the warmth in his body with it. "To find a way to do it." Oh, the pieces fit together alright. And the picture they formed made his skin crawl. "You experimented with resurrecting the dead." Experimented on humans; and that table he was sitting on had been...

"Why not use the proper name for things?" Mephisto led on. "Show you deserve the grades Maki-san gave you in history~"

Shiro deliberately focused on getting the blood into the beaker and not beside it when he spoke:

"Artificial life research."

"Good~" Mephisto confirmed in a tone that did nothing to ease the chill in Shiro's bones. "What is true power?" He pointed the question at him with his whole arm, as if it were a rapier. "Is it to have at beck and call the legions of Gehenna, that would swarm the land like locusts, striking down resistance with the force of a tidal wave and the unerring efficiency of plague? Is it to control the flow of information, to dam and release at will the precious drops of knowledge, and enslave the minds of the masses in shackles of ignorance and lies? Is it to be able to lay the world in ruin", he murmured in a voice like dark chocolate slowly melting, "with a mere snap of one's fingers?"

The snap of his middle finger sliding off his thumb sent ripples of chills over Shiro's skin.

"Demons are the agents of destruction; we warp Creation into crookedness, locate the seed of rot in every thing and make it fester. But _true_ power", a vicious spark lit his eyes as he spread his arms wide for the announcement. "True power lies in _creation:_ to seize from the realms of dream an Idea and weave from the thread of Thought itself the fabric to give it flesh and form! To weld the essence of the universe unto the winged breath of consciousness, and release into the flow of time a frail, fluttering instant with infinity locked within its confines: _that_ ", he said, pausing to address an audience unseen, "is power."

Silence fell heavy after the ecstatic outburst, the stone walls of the laboratory soaking up his words in reverent silence until he picked up anew; slower, once again measured and controlled.

"Though I can mould and shape nigh anything to my liking, even power like mine comes with limitations: human imagination", he leaned forward, intimately close, and poked a finger in Shiro's forehead, "does not. Find the right mind, give it the right means, and there is no limit that can't be transcended. Michał Sędziwój had the mind, but not the means; until I told him of the ley-lines that cross here in Wawel castle." He swept his arms out as if addressing the entire world at once. "The very lifeblood of Assiah itself, pulsing right underneath our feet. A forge for alchemy undreamt of, a place for miracles to be worked and limits obsolete to be scraped from the book of law; a place for life to be created, or restored."

" _I should've known it was you. Only a demon would do something like that._ "

Shiro had read about it: what little there was. Artificial life research. Not only was it forbidden; it was a taboo so atrocious that the world had buried its memory in the ashes of purging fire, and left only a few lines in the books of exorcism history to testify that it had ever existed:

 _It is the science of giving life to that which is dead. It is a science that claims the power of God to perform the work of the Devil._  
It calls shreds of the human soul back from death, and fuses them together with a demon so that the two, like a chimera, become one: but it is shreds only, and the creature they give life to is not a real human.  
Artificial life and its research is the gravest, most unforgivable crime one can commit against God and against mankind.

Meanwhile Mephisto tugged off the white glove, one finger at a time; pricked his forefinger on the sharp thumbnail… and dabbed it at the cut in Shiro's arm.

"Hey, what are you-?" Before Shiro got any further, a tingling itch bit his arm as the cut… closed. There was still a tender pink line, as of fresh scar tissue, but no bleeding.

"Checking for response", Mephisto informed, and licked blood off his finger; his own cut had healed completely in less than a second. "Of which there is plenty." He took Shiro's arm by the elbow and prodded the skin gently with his thumb. "Instead of your immune system reacting against the foreign cells, it identifies them as the body's own." He let go of his arm. "It seems we've become compatible physically as well." He chose those words deliberately, bloody pervert, he _definitely_ chose them deliberately. "Still, a few more tests are needed to further determine the nature of your condition."

Shiro's eyes followed the lithe, black form as it brought the blood sample over to the vials he had prepared. A demon. Not Mephisto, but a demon: a creature that would stake the lives of women and children in a gamble to achieve his ends, and infuse demons into their corpses to surpass limits that didn't agree with him.

" _That's what human lives are to you? Puppets and playthings?_ " Bloodletting or the magnitude of a world tilting unsteadily: it was an unsettled Shiro that kicked off his shoes and reluctantly unbuttoned his trousers. " _The more human they look, the less human they are: right as always, Midori-chan._ " His thoughts skipped like a scratched record. No, Mephisto wasn't human. Had never been human. Had never had human morals. " _…aren't I the one in the wrong, expecting him to be human when he isn't?_ "

Mephisto looked human, more or less. He acted human – more or less. Because he had learnt to. His mimicry was close to perfection, but an act is ever only an act. Mephisto had the ways of human conduct memorised like lines of a play in a foreign language; a set of sounds that he could voice without understanding, verses that made perfect sense to a listener but held no meaning in his pointy ears.

No one knows the human heart like a demon: but no demon has ever understood the human heart.

" _He knows all the buttons to push and all the strings to pull, but he doesn't understand…_ " Didn't understand the things about humans that can't be explained by logic; the things that are so fundamentally obvious to a human that they are beyond logic, because... they lie at the very core of human nature.

Shiro looked with fresh eyes at Mephisto's back while the demon mixed blood and chemicals: a visitor from another world, happily taking apart everything he came across to learn more about Assiah and its inhabitants.

" _He's curious._ " There was a strange… innocence… to the thought. " _Curious without any true understanding of human right and wrong. Like a kid._ " A kid centuries old that could bend time and space: innocent curiosity made infinitely lethal. "You really did it, then?" he asked, debating philosophical questions with himself that he really didn't feel he was up to. "Revived the dead?"

"Reanimated." Mephisto raised a cautioning finger to the difference. "God is in the detail, they say: and so is the devil – oh, the things you humans say at times, not understanding the weight of your words~" he snickered, as if sharing some private joke with himself. "One can bring life back to a body and reanimate it, that isn't hard: to bring the person back… ah, that Idea was smothered in its cradle."

And, while he magically attached a great number of copper wires to the cylinder of metal disks that he had built; as if it was the most natural thing in the world…

"'tis vain, they say, to wage pursuit of such endeavour;  
to steal from dust of dust the spark of vestal breath  
and con that lease laid down by Law that changeth never;  
for high and low alike, the price of life is death"

It was a most peculiar one-man performance… but with a lead actor like him, there wasn't room for more than one on stage.

"'tis vain, I won't contest, but nonetheless entices  
a certain type of mind from fancy to cabal;  
whatever sway Law holds, for one so fond of vices,  
doth fall to fault, as did the ilk of man in thrall"

Shiro knew nothing of theatre and performance, nor did he need to: Mephisto could hold any audience spellbound with that voice, and fill any stage with his presence no matter how large.

"A fickle lass, fair Chance a faithless mistress maketh,  
that, charmed by chaster hymns 'cross tipping scales she trod,  
the Ring of promise from the Fisherman then taketh  
and jilt the Devil that would do the work of God"

"Huh…" He didn't really know what to say – plain words seemed to hide in embarrassment in the company of that monologue. He settled for sound. Sometimes sound better expresses what you mean.

* * *

It was like any examination by any doctor: a little uncomfortable, a little tense, a little-

Oh screw that; doctors didn't have claws. Doctors didn't attach wires to your skin with resin-like stuff that smelt strange – well, maybe some did – and they definitely didn't _enjoy_ their work the way Mephisto did. Sure, he had more knowledge than anyone of the effects demonic presence could have on a human body, dead or living, but he had absolutely _no_ sense of-

"You're very close", Shiro informed him dryly. Personal space was something unknown where Mephisto was concerned.

The demon's former professionalism was completely poofed away, and he took his merry time deciding whether to attach the wires there, or maybe there, or maybe on some other patch of skin he wanted and excuse to run his clawed fingers over. That was aggravating enough; but when he had worked his way up to Shiro's torso, he was so close the still long tress of purple fringe tickled his chin.

"You don't seem overly bothered." Heavy-lidded eyes came into view as the fringe was shifted out of the way. "On the contrary", one sharp nail traced a suggestive beeline down his chest, "your heart rate says you'd like me to be much closer than this~"

That was _too_ close. Shiro's fingers wrapped around his hair curl and tugged. Hard.

"Ow! That _hurt_!" And did bring Shiro back his personal space, too. "Some way of thanking one who tries to help you!"

"One who tries to help himself to some rather unscientific research, you mean." He quirked an unimpressed eyebrow at the demon that clutched his head and curl protectively. "You can make it a rule of thumb that if your curl is so close I can grab it, I will. Nice crocodile tears, by the way. And what do I do now?" He wiggled his feet demonstratively, but was careful not to move anything that might disturb the examination.

"You do nothing, you monkey."

"Nothing? …I might fall asleep." It had become habit, when he studied day and night, to sneak any catnap he could get: now, it seemed to have developed into a remarkable skill of falling asleep anywhere.

"You may, if you wish", he said with a smile, and poofed himself a large, cushioned chair to lounge in while he took down cryptic notes from a metronome-thing on the tray beside the table.

"Wipe that dirty look off your face, I'm not falling asleep", Shiro huffed, but it wasn't without a smile at the corners of his mouth. "There's things in here with more bite than permanent marker for you to play with if I do." And he was one pair of boxers away from being buck-naked: no falling asleep under those conditions. "You already had an idea of what this could be", he picked up a bit more seriously. "How bad is it, you think?"

"If any of the blood samples turn black, we have reason to worry." The quill twirled pirouettes between Mephisto's fingers. "It's unlikely that you would have survived this long with autogenous miasma poisoning, however, so odds are that what we find will only be a minor inconvenience."

"Minor inconvenience", he repeated flatly. "That sounds like fancy-talk for rather shitty stuff."

"I believe the word you seek is 'euphemism'. There are degrees of severity, of course, but none so fatal that I can't make a potion to counter the deterioration."

"Deterioration." Shiro grimaced. This was only getting worse. "Did it ever strike you that picking pretty words to hide nasty stuff might be more unsettling than actually saying out loud that things will go to hell?"

Mephisto cocked his head to the side with the sweetest smile a couple of fangs will allow.

"Really now; why do you think demons value the art of wordsmithing so highly?" He dipped the tip of the quill onto Shiro's arm, tracing a trail of goose bumps over his skin. "The word is mightier than the sword because it pierces the heart through any armour." The airy touch of the feather slid languidly up to nip at his neck. "It's the hammer that bends the unyielding steel, and the delicate tap that traces fine embossing into its surface." Eerie. Eerie in a way that made something deeply human in Shiro instinctively recoil from danger. "It can be forged into the key for any lock, or chains that no key can loosen." Shiro turned his head away on reflex when the quill crawled up under his chin. "In the mouth of a master smith, it becomes a chisel that can shape souls."

There was a pause, and a dark glimmer deep in the green eyes that posed questions Shiro didn't want to ask: _Am I a master smith? Am I shaping you this very moment, for some distant purpose in a future only I can see?_

" _I must be insane._ " He could understand people's worries. You don't make friends with a demon for the same reason you don't keep a tiger as a house cat. " _…then again, isn't life more valuable the closer you are to losing it?_ " The world was full of lunatics parachuting off buildings and walking to the North pole: same need for kicks, different ways of getting them. "Does demon-wordsmithing include speaking in verse?" Thrills strummed his intestines, licked his nerves with adrenaline, but outwardly he remained calm. Parachuter ready to jump. "Just wondering. You're the only one I've heard do that."

"Hmm, no, it isn't something demons generally do", he said, and noted down a reading on the parchment. "I think it was a habit I adopted in Assiah."

"I guess that makes you weird among both demons and humans… You're good at it, though. How come?"

"How come?" That tone. That twitch of the hair curl. There was no mistaking it: Shiro had stepped on another of those landmine-buttons that caused Mephisto to take offense for his ignorance. "How come _I_ am good at verse and rhyme?" he snorted and marked the next reading with more force and flourish than the previous. "Was I not known to the Norsemen as Loke, the spirit of wile and wit; famed far and wide for speech sharper than tempered steel and sweeter than a lover's kiss? Was I not Hermes to the Greek; patron of poets and literature, with the winged words of wisdom leaping off my tongue?"

"Okay, okay, point taken: you're good with words." And had a tendency to never stop using them, if you didn't shut him up before the monologue gained momentum.

"Not to mention good-looking~" the demon reminded, and made another of those one-eighty turnabouts in mood.

"You're never gonna let that go, are you?" Maybe it hadn't been such a bright idea to say that about his suit...

"Neither am I going to cease being good-looking – and adorable." And happy as a kid about it. "I will have to revise my opinion of you, Shiro: you have both tongue and taste, on the rare occasion they are out of the closet."

If Shiro had had any hand free and mobile, he would have smacked it over his own face.

"Spirit of wit and wile…" he groaned.

* * *

"My, how interesting…"

None of the blood samples had turned black, which was a relief; but with the examination completed, "interesting" was not the word Shiro wanted to hear.

"Last time you said that, I was told I could host Satan." Shiro shot a meaningful look at the demon that went over the readings once more. "Don't you dare drop something like that on me again."

His statement earned an amused chuckle from Mephisto.

"How about 'you now possess superhuman strength'?"

"For real?"

"Fufufufu look at that face!" The demon laughed with his whole, spindly body. "Have you decided on name and costume yet, Tetsuwan Atom?"

Shiro wiped expectation off his features and replaced it with a shamefaced glare. All men are boys on the inside, and all boys dream of having superpowers: likewise, all men would rather headbutt a bullet than admit that.

"You can put those ambitions to rest right away, Shiro: you won't be using that strength."

"You mean I actually _have_ superhuman strength?" He had assumed it was just a joke when Mephisto laughed like that.

"Yes – as improbable and impractical as that is; yes, you do." Both quill and parchment disappeared with a poof. "Quite unique, your degree of assimilation. I dismissed it as a passing afterglow when you sparred with me, but it seems permanent – a rather delightful way of being wrong, I do say. In the simplest way of putting it", he said when he finally noticed the look of get-on-with-it painted on Shiro's features, "your body is halfway between human and demon."

The words replayed in Shiro's mind. Very slowly. No, they still said the same thing: halfway between human and demon.

"What does that mean, exactly?" he asked, feeling as though his body had gone someplace else for a while to digest the information.

"Who knows?" he said in that disgustingly flippant manner that made Shiro itch to yank his curl again. "This is the first case of its kind, as far as my knowledge stretches: very much can be assumed and very little said for sure." Mephisto slipped his gloves back on. "A body changes in many ways when a demon takes up residence in it, and changes back when it leaves. You weren't possessed in the traditional sense, but it would seem your body changed as if you were; without fully changing back."

"Details." Shiro began detaching the wires from himself, and scrubbed off the stinking paste with linen cloth as he did. "The devil's in the details: in what way has it changed?"

"That would require insight in biochemical processes that I don't think you-"

"What you think doesn't really do me any good unless it comes out of your mouth: _details_ ", Shiro demanded, and realised his mistake the moment he had. He knew that look: it meant _manners_ , and it wasn't going away unless complied with. "Tell me; please."

"That's more like it~ The human body is a peculiar contraption, able to exercise much greater physical strength than it is built for – why, had you used any more force on that tengu, the strain would have torn the muscles from your bones."

He said it as casually as if he were talking about some anime he had watched, but Shiro could feel the imagined pain – _tearing muscle from bone?_ – rip through his tissues.

"To prevent such messy things, your nervous system is equipped with a set of safety circuits - tendon organs, so called - which serve to inhibit the strength of your muscles. When a body is possessed by a demon, these safety circuits are switched off to enable it to channel our strength without, so to speak, blowing a fuse. This places the body under great strain, but since we constantly regenerate damage, one thing balances out the other." Mephisto's head tilted to the side as he ran an analytical glance over Shiro from toe to head. "Some percentage of your safeties remain inactive since Deep Keep, allowing you to perform remarkable feats of strength – at the humble price of having your muscles and tendons snap from overload. Fortunately, no such thing has happened. The damage done to your fingers is not all too grave, and will heal with no permanent ill-effects." His head tilted back straight on his neck when he met Shiro's eyes. "Detailed enough for you?"

"Yeah. Thanks." He curled and flexed his fingers, so very grateful that they would go back to normal. "So what now? I have to watch it so I don't overexert myself?"

"You mean we should leave you to your own devices…?"

"Something tells me you don't think that's a very good idea", Shiro deduced from the look of Utter Scepticism on the demon's face. "And I might be inclined to agree with you, depending on what your suggestion is."

"Spoken like a businessman~ A body can adapt, tendons can be strengthened: I will have Gokuro-san design a special training program for you, and if you follow it properly", Shiro didn't miss the special emphasis on that word, "you might be able to make use of that muscle force – to a certain extent. In either case, you need to acquaint yourself with your body anew or you will most definitely damage it."

"Sounds good enough to me." Maybe too soon to give up that superhero costume…? Completely insane, this was – but he wouldn't deny it was at the same time pretty cool. "Funny thing, that imprint… Wonder what other effects we'll see from it?" Shiro chuckled as he pulled the shirt on and retrieved his glasses. "Maybe I'll start speaking in verse?"

"Maybe you will learn to do a tie?" Mephisto suggested, without much hope to it, when he once again had to tie the garment for him.

"Maybe I'll be able to grow a beard?" Shiro pondered, having Mephisto's trademark goatee at eye level.

"A rather messy and unkempt one, judging by your hair."

"Pff, you probably comb that goatee smooth."

"Don't be ridiculous; it's natural."

"Oh I've seen your natural hair in the morning", Shiro grinned with one eyebrow cocked at the affronted look on Mephisto's features. "Very elegant."

"The same could be said of your way of getting out of bed in the morning", the demon countered effortlessly.

"That isn't half as embarrassing as sleeping with a unicorn plushie."

To his surprise, Mephisto chuckled – no, _giggled_. At first Shiro thought he had made a bow out of his tie, or done some other silly thing, but-

"No risk of you speaking in verse, with the little thought you put behind your words", he chuckled through a grin. "Anyone who heard you would get the impression you have observed my habits in bed quite often."

Shiro ran the conversation over in his head… and cracked up.

"Shit, that really does- pfwahahaha oh god it sounds so wrong!" He covered his eyes with his hand in embarrassment, but couldn't stop laughing. "Oh, now I see! It must be the imprint that turns everything I say into pervy hints!"

"The imprint augments what is already there~" Mephisto teased, and smoothed down the shirt collar over the tie. "Whether you acknowledge it or not."

"Yeah, yeah, keep on dreaming: I'm not into guys." Shiro pulled his trousers on, and carefully inched them up past the stitches without the fabric touching them.

"Not even exceptionally good-looking ones~?" he asked with a look that indicated he would print _exceptionally good-looking_ on his business card without an ounce of shame.

"Especially not those: their heads tend to be too big for my palate. …no! Oh, don't you-! You _know_ what I meant, you pervert! I'm not like that, it's the imprint! It's the _imprint_ , I tell you…!"

But Mephisto had already collapsed over the examination table, with lung-bursting laughter peeling tears down his cheeks and drowning out Shiro's attempts to clarify what kind of head he really meant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N**
> 
> **Why Poland?**  
>  The laboratory Mephisto used was situated in 16th century Poland, yes? And Neuhaus, who was apprenticed at such a laboratory, was from Poland. What's up with Poland?
> 
> New Ageists and Hindu gurus say that seven ley-lines, the energy flows (nadis) of the earth, intersect in Krakow to form one of the planet's strongest nodes (chakras) of power. "Energy" is pretty vague, but consider it Mother Earth's lifeblood. More precisely, these flows are said to intersect at Wawel hill, where lies Wawel castle: a powerhouse, quite literally, for one wanting to conduct experiments relating to life and resurrection. One of the towers of Wawel castle, the one called the Hen's Foot, used to house the laboratory of Michał Sędziwój (1566-1636), a pioneering alchemist.
> 
> I don't think Mephisto could visit the present-day research facility from the anime: not without anyone noticing, not when the research was banned. But the cradle of the art? Yes, maybe. At safe distance from the Vatican's watchful eyes, too. Michał Sędziwój was something of a genius in alchemy at the time: sounds like someone whose aid Mephisto might have enlisted?
> 
> Another fun detail in this is that Sędziwój was educated in, among other places, Wittenberg: same place as a certain Johann Faust (in legend). And speaking of the Faust found in legend: the constituents of his character are derived from many real life sources, one of which allegedly was Georg Sabellicus, a necromancer living in the 16th century (same as Sędziwój). And would you believe it? Sabellicus travelled to Poland to study – yep – magic (as chemistry and the natural sciences were called at the time). It would seem Poland was the place to go for advanced research at that time: so, in all, Kazue Kato picked her spot well.
> 
>  **Loke**  
>  …Swedish spelling. ^_^' Mentioned as one of Mephisto's earlier aliases in AnE ch 39, and the similarities are all there: trickster, schemer, shape hifter, sometimes benevolent and sometimes malevolent, not a god and yet accepted among the gods through oath, deity of wit and wordsmithing (most notably, smithing lies), and… quite the slut. ;P
> 
>  **Hermes**  
>  Not as canon as Loke, but I believe Mephisto has been around long enough to cause trouble in all sorts of places. An eloquent trickster god, an intermediary between gods (well, "gods") and men, and able to move freely between the realm of the divine and the realm of mortals. He's the patron not only of poets and literature but also of orators and wit – and thieves.
> 
>  **Demonic strength?**  
>  I invented a sort of anachronistic EMG examination (you might recognise a vague description of Alessandro Volta's cylinder battery), combined with testing blood samples to look for abnormalities. I imagine chemical balance and nerve function are the kind of things you'd have to check, if you dabbled in reanimating corpses using demonic possession.
> 
> There's a whole set of nerve bundles and things that moderate the tension and relaxation of muscles: there's no definite consensus on exactly which ones do what, and how they work. But if you "switched the safeties off" you would be able to do badass cool stuff. And then your body would break. |-3 There is training that aims to accomplish that (by overriding the reflex response from the spine), I learnt, but it's only done by body-builders and weight lifters and people that have no healthy relationship to their bodies. But imagine if you could balance that tendon-tearing strength potential with a demon's regenerative abilities…? Theoretically, it would work.
> 
>  **Why bother?**  
>  I'm not trying to give Shiro superpowers… =_=' There is a gap in canon that I need to fill, sooner or later. Humans in AnE are delightfully human, without insane strength or speed; unless we look at Shura and Angel. Yes, their high rank allows for superhuman badassery, but the most notable difference between them and other exorcists is that they wield demon swords. Angel sacrifices hair, Shura sacrifices blood, and in return they get more attack power: so I'm brazenly hypothesizing that they both enjoy that augmentation of strength and speed as a part of their contracts with their respective weapons.
> 
> The problem is we never actually get to see Shiro fight, so I don't know how powerful he was - or if he had some demon sword or demon gun (?) that augmented his own strength. What I noted is that in that first volume of the manga, Shiro is quite capable of diverting a charging demon's attack without breaking a sweat, and in the anime he jumps across rooftops like it's nothing at age 51 (while Rin misses his leap). In the Kyoto flashbacks the monks are astounded that he was even able to stand with the injuries he had sustained: ergo, it looks like there's some kind of boost to his body, we're just never shown how it works.


	22. The bell rings once...

It was a beautiful summer's day, and Shiro plain refused to study cooped up in the sweltering dorm room. The breeze on the roof felt nice in his hair, except when it blew into his eyes. Mephisto did have a point; he should cut it, but his exams were the top priority at the moment.

Would you listen to that? _Exams were top priority._ He certainly had changed.

" _Superhuman strength._ " …yes, he felt a bit smug about it. That was by far the best thing the imprint had brought him. " _I can't wait to start that training._ "

There had come a telegram a couple of days earlier that filled him with both excitement and nervousness. It's a very common mix, but nonetheless annoyingly distractive; even more so when the sender of the telegram should've showed up yesterday. Every now and then Shiro would push his fringe – what fringe? all his hair was the same length – out of the way, squint, and scan the sundrenched streets from his vantage point. A shahrokh familiar not his own had swooped by not long ago, and at the sight of him it had made an excited loop and flown back the same direction.

…suddenly, he wished he had taken the time to cut his hair. A quick one-over with the knife, maybe? On second thought, that probably wouldn't be any improvement.

Shiro was poring over his books and developing stupid complexes over his appearance when the unmistakable smell of amanatto, in the shape of a brown paper bag, landed right in the middle of _Differences in efficiency between Biblical verses and Buddhist chants used against possessed objects as opposed to possessed creatures_.

"Awful way ta spend a fine day like this", Kasumi's voice sounded from above his head. "Ye takin' the exam fe' Aria, like Shizzy?" Her long sideway fringe tickled his ear as she leaned down to peer over his shoulder.

"That one and all the rest – and you just graduated from the ninja academy?" Shiro raised an eyebrow at the face inches from his. "That roof door screeches like a banshee when it's opened."

"Good thing I didn't take the stairs, then."

Shiro had to run that one over in his head once more. Sure, _he_ used to climb facades, but Kasumi was a-

A badass she-devil with a face that should be that close to his permanently. She smelt like summer flowers and road dust and adventure, and he wouldn't mind eating her instead of the sweets.

"You know, I hear amanatto taste better if you eat it indoors."

"Then I say yer hearin' ain't very good."

"No, it's true", he ensured with a straight face. "You lay them out one by one, sprinkle them with sesame seeds, and eat them off each other's naked bodies. They taste wonderful."

Kasumi's hearty laughter made her voluptuous chest tremble against his back and fill his head with other creative ways of dining.

"Nice try, pretty-boy." She straightened up and ruffled his hair: dammit, he should've had it cut. "Savin' up fer a perm? That an' those glasses an' ye'll look just like an old lady."

"Oh, is that the kind you prefer? Sorry, I didn't know."

"Ohoho, well~", she smirked down at him from above. "Ye're the expert at pickin' out the girls ye can't get, aren't ya? Fe' the record", she leaned down over him to pick the bag up, brushing – _laying_ – her full breasts against his shoulder, "I like my men with big hearts an' big…" Impishness played a merry summer-serenade on her features; "…mouths." To his surprise, she placed a teasing peck on his cheek. "C'mon: we got some catchin' up ta do." Kasumi sashayed off towards the creaky rooftop door, swinging the bag back and forth in her hand. "An' these", she held them up with a wink over her shoulder, "taste best while walkin' in a nice, shadowed park."

" _Looking good both up front and behind_ ", he grinned to himself as he gathered up his books while throwing sideways glances at the rear disappearing through the door. " _I really hope I can get on Shizu-san's good side again. Hell knows I miss talking to him… and he's got a killer sister I wouldn't mind talking more with, either._ "

* * *

There _are_ perfect days: days that warm blood and body like a constant sugar rush, and in every way assure you that life is a beautiful thing. Shiro and Kasumi chose the walk around the lake, the one where dusk would see the night market setting up shop on the city-side shore. There was nothing there now, only the bright view of the square across the lake and rippling sunlight playing in the shading canopy of birdsong above them.

Demons dwell in darkness and shadow, and days like this their presences were so vague Shiro could barely sense them at all. They were still there, of course. They were always there. But the sun was bright, life was beautiful, and all the flowers of summer were walking next to him with a playful smile and a bag of sweets: on a day like this, Shiro would allow himself the risky luxury of an unshielded heart.

Kasumi was something out of the ordinary. A pocket in time, but a living one. A henro travelling by foot in a time of cars, owning only the treasure of memories in a time where value was counted in money and work. A thousand tales from sky to earth lived in her smiling eyes, and her skin shone proudly with the deep tint of hard-earned wisdom: someone out of the ordinary. Someone who inevitably drew Shiro's attention.

"Nah, enough o' my roadside ramblings", she concluded after a most fascinating story of a man who had not only accidentally severed his toe while thinning his cabbages, but found that it enhanced the flavour of rice wine quite nicely if you let it soak in the bottle. "What've you been up to? When ye're not on hero duty an' savin' women an' children in need?"

"Saving demons in need", he said with a smile, took a bean from the bag and let his hand incidentally brush against Kasumi's. "Oh, you don't believe me? Ask Mephisto's butler. He came to me the other day and begged me on his knees to save the staff from their master: literally _on his knees._ "

Her face was still the image of befuddlement.

"…that's… completely messed up. They come te _you_ when they're having trouble with their boss?"

"Yep: I'm the only one that can do battle with the great Sir Mephisto Pheles. Between you and me, he's one pesky princess to be employed by", Shiro confided with a grin. "I actually pity his servants a bit, so I helped them out."

"How, 'sactly? Come on, I know the smell of a good story!"

"Right, right." He took the unlit cigarette from his lips and tucked it behind his ear to speak freely: "So, as you know, Mephisto dresses like a circus drag queen, and…"

And when he was done relating how the bet came about and how it was won, they had to make a short stop to let Kasumi laugh. That also meant she leaned on him for support, which was very nice indeed.

"Ahahah…haaah… oh my, that's… fufufufu oh ye're a crack-up, both o' ye hahahaha… Oddest couple I ever saw, but it's plain as day ye're just right fer each other", she sniggered, and wiped laughing tears with the back of her hand in a very unladylike manner.

"Oi, you're speaking as if we were dating." Shiro pulled a face that said all about what he thought of that. Thank goodness Mephisto wasn't there to pick up on it. Bloody hell, he'd never let it go…

"Oh?" There it was: the look of an impish little pixie about to pull off a prank. "Ye're down ta callin' each other by first name, if ye haven't noticed. Without honorifics. Will ye be doin' it the Catholic way, or d'ya go with traditional Shinto or Buddhist ceremonies?"

"The one with the fanciest wedding dress, if you let him pick." Shiro made an unarticulated noise that perfectly expressed his feelings about the vision. "The worst thing is he'd probably put one on without even blinking. Half of the clothes in his wardrobe seem to be women's yukatas." Kasumi went down in another laughing fit, so he took his time to simply _enjoy_ : summer warmth and sunny laughter, a cute girl at his side, no demons breathing down his neck… "Well, if you're done, I can inform you we don't really use names with each other at all." He brought a hand up to count. "He calls me 'monkey', 'barbarian', 'philistine', 'plebeian' – I don't even know what that one means, but it's probably an insult educated people use to make the less educated feel even more stupid." He picked another treat out of the bag and tossed it into his mouth whole. "We dropped the honorifics part 'cause we're simply not very formal with each other."

Kasumi's expression was one in between wonder and disbelief.

"Ye must be givin' 'im plenty o' reason ta say that: 'e's been a perfect gentleman the times I've met 'im."

"I have a hard time believing that. Why would he be a gentleman to you…?" Shiro cast a very obvious glance at the bulging chest of her robe; rather than the furtive ones he cast when he pretended to look at some particularly interesting tree.

"Well, at least 'e's looking at my eyes an' not my tits." She gave him a glance in return that could compete with Mephisto's. "Or trees across the walkway."

…he might have to polish his furtiveness.

"You're one scary girl", he grinned sheepishly and scratched his nose. "Too late to say I was just checking that there weren't any pines nearby?"

"Far too late~ Poor excuse, anyway – ye missed that one ova' there."

"Shit. I'd better run, then."

"You'd better." There was a gleam in her eyes that was not to be trusted. "Before I'm done decidin' which end o' ya I'm gonna shove it in."

"I've still got stitches in my leg, you know."

"An' yer legs are longer than mine, so it evens out", she said with a grin that was just the right amount of wicked. "Last one ta the bridge treats the other t'a slice o' watermelon."

* * *

Smokers aren't famed for any outstanding stamina: in that department, the imprint had unfortunately not made any improvements. Shiro was an okay sprinter, but the bridge was a bit farther than sprinting distance; and he didn't dare go all out, with Mephisto's ominous words of snapping muscle tendons in mind. Plus he had that half-healed wound in his leg. And the wind blew the wrong direction.

…did excuses make the defeat any less devastating, when his opponent was a girl that barely reached him to the shoulder? No, not really.

"Ah, shit, I'm gonna die…" he wheezed, supported himself with his hands on his knees, and threw glares at the evil pygmy – for real? she wasn't even panting? – that twirled her walking staff idly in one hand.

"Not before ye've bought me my watermelon." She let the staff twirl one full turn around her hand, caught it, and set the end in the ground with a decisive feeling of 'let's go, then'. "With that stamina ye don't need a perm ta be an old lady. Want me te carry ya…?"

Look at that smug face: she probably _could_ carry him, dammit all…

"If I buy a whole watermelon and stuff it into your mouth sideways, will it shut you up?"

"I know a mouth it would fit for sure: how about ye buy one an' we try…?"

* * *

Oh, there weren't words for it. There were simply not words for how good the air tasted, how bright the sun was; how much he enjoyed opening his heart and senses to the world, and having someone he didn't have to wear any mask around.

Someone who didn't wear any mask around him. Someone whose laughter didn't ring false with doubts and worries in his ears.

God, it was a whole different life…

They occupied the railing of the wooden bridge across the lake; each with a slice of watermelon in one hand, the other shading their eyes, and both trying to spit the seeds as far as they could.

To Shiro's relief, he could beat her at least at that.

"I'll be!" she whistled when he hit another pink lotus flower. "Shizzy said ye could shoot a yabudemari berry from a flying bird's beak, but I thought that was just fe' guns. Yer marksmanship is outta this world."

Hearing it from Ando-sensei was nice: hearing it from Kasumi was bloody awesome.

"Thanks." He picked another slice from the tray between them, and relished in it far beyond the actual taste. " _My ego will be the size of Mephisto's._ "

"Ye know, I envy him at times", she mused softly. "We've never gone ta school, not me or any o' my sisters: mum an' dad taught us everything on the road. It was always just us, an' the people we met an' left as we walked. In my mind we were always gonna be fam'ly, stay tagether."

She spat another watermelon seed, and attracted the attentions of a rather disappointed duck.

"Years went by, roads ended an' branched off, an' in the end it was just Shizzy an' me. An' then, on 'is fifteenth birthday, 'e told me 'e wanted ta go ta the Academy in True Cross Town." She chuckled in her throat, eyes lost in the dancing sparks on the water. "I knew he'd been up ta somethin', what with savin' all that money – even skippin' a few meals some days, ta save more – but I'd had no idea what 'e was gonna do. An' it really hurt."

She licked the edge of the red flesh before she bit into the last slice of melon.

"The others couldn't help it – we all die one day – but Shizzy left by choice. An' he's my brother. I dunno if ye can relate, but… 'e's like the other half of me", she smiled. Shiro could believe that smile. He'd seen Shizuku and Kasumi together, and they really were... "We're two branches o' the same tree, growin' tagether since birth. An' when 'e said 'e wanted ta part ways, I…"

Part of Shiro wanted to punch Shizuku for putting a look like that on Kasumi's face: but then, she chuckled.

"Ye know how he can shout when 'e's mad. I'm ten years older, an' I shout ten times louder: I bet they could hear our argument ova' te the next village." The green crescent of watermelon skin joined the others on the empty tray. Somewhere in Shiro's gut, a knot tightened. "But in the end, we all choose our own paths. I didn't like letting 'im go, but I respected 'is choice – an' now that I see where his path took 'im, I can tell it was the right choice." That look on her face – no, no; not so soon. Just a little longer, just a little more before they- "I reminded him o' that when I got here yesta'day. It's a bitter pill fe' him ta swallow, but 'e did reconsider." Kasumi swung her legs effortlessly over the railing and landed on the bridge. "So the grounds are stomped an' the cleansing salt's thrown inta the circle: only thing left is for the two o' ye ta meet up an' sort this out", she declared with a bright smile and a wink.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N**
> 
> **Ring the bell:** hit the spot, be just what's needed in the situation  
>  **Amanatto:** azuki beans or other beans that have simmered in syrup and then been coated in sugar, basically.  
>  **Yabudemari** : in the West more commonly called "snowball bush/tree". They grow red berries in fall.  
>  **Sourtoe Cocktail:** that bit about chopping a toe off and putting it in your drink? Reality beats fiction. Google it and find out.


	23. ...twice...

There is only one negative thing with perfect days: sooner or later, they end. Usually sooner. Far sooner than you want them to.

It wasn't something he liked to admit, but Shiro had hoped that… had hoped. Had clung to it for the longest time, even if he knew it wouldn't last.

He knew why Kasumi was there; he just didn't want to think about it. Didn't want to leave this relaxed day – this _real_ day, without unspoken questions and fake smiles – to go back to the tension and the masks. They might resolve the worst of it with Shizuku, but there would always be masks. There would always be things he could never let any human know.

* * *

The short pilgrim led the way back to the forested side of the lake, and Shiro was suddenly reminded that this was the bridge: the bridge where he and Shizuku had had their final argument.

" _Shape up, you pussy. You've settled things before._ " Usually with fists, but… There was a deeply unsettling feeling in his gut that he wasn't used to and couldn't identify. "I was a bit worried when you didn't show up yesterday", he picked up, and immediately regretted the sound of it.

"Ye gotta have _some_ better pick-up line ta try, bigmouth" she jabbed with a smile. "Thought I was gonna be here sooner, but I got held up on the way. Anyways, I was here by nightfall. Shizzy filled me in on the story 'round this argument ye're havin'." _Reject_. Shiro didn't want that, he realised. He didn't want Shizuku to tell Kasumi what the Shiro with the mask was like. He wanted to cut this day off from all the rest of his days and never let the two come in contact, for risk of contamination. "Now, I'm not passin' any judgement on anyone; I just wanna hear your thoughts on it. Midori-san said some pretty ominous stuff 'bout ye' friend there at the shooting range."

Shiro bit the tip of his tongue in thought. Two Shiros were about to meet, Shizuku's and Kasumi's, and they had to speak with the same voice.

"I think Midori-chan is right; about him being powerful. Demons can tell such things about each other. But she doesn't know him as a person."

"An' how would ye say 'e is, as a person?"

Describe Mephisto? Why not have a go at describing das Labyrinth des Limbus? There was nothing you could say of him that wasn't contradicted by something else he did. He was such a massive complex of dead ends and false walls and roads that twisted back in on themselves that you'd lose yourself in the vastness of it without ever coming closer to explaining what he was li-

"…like outpacing thought", he mumbled, rewinding what he had just thought to try again; try to see more of what he'd glimpsed in the corner of his mind's eye for a split second. " _Beyond what the mind can grasp; so infinitely much more than the mind itself that-_ " Damn, the thought had been _there_ but it slipped so quickly…!

"Hoo~ That's an unusual thing ta hear from that mouth", Kasumi whistled in honest amazement. "Outpacin' thought. I see what ye mean."

"You do…?" His turn to be surprised. Maybe she could explain…?

"Yeah." Her admiring face broke with an absentminded chuckle. "In a sense. Couldn't explain what it is, though. That's part of the idea, no?" She glanced up at him with the same honesty now forming a warm smile on her lips. "There's things beyond the grasp of words an' thoughts. Things too big fer us ta comprehend." They left the walkway for a narrow forest trail overgrown with neglect. "Shizzy worried a lot about Midori-san's words, but I think ye're closer ta how things are than he is."

Oh yes, Shizuku worried. And Shiro worried more and more if he would be able to pull off this meeting or not. Shizuku would have him answer all those inconvenient questions in front of Kasumi, and-

"'e's still a kid, my brother", her voice phased back into his perception. The forest path was too narrow for them to walk side by side, and she spoke over her shoulder in front of him. "Mature fe' his age, but hasty an' stubborn as teenage guys are. An' feels a very strong responsibility fe' people – 'e got that from dad, I'm sure."

The thick greenery of summer closed in on them and tinted the sunlight with chlorophyll. Shadows had life in there: sluggish and whining and weak at that hour, but shielded from direct sunlight. And attentive of the humans that disturbed them.

Thinking more of the short, robed shape ahead than of himself, Shiro let his heart grow cold and indifferent in the lush warmth. Caution before comfort.

" _Just a tiny crack…_ " he told himself. He didn't want it to end, didn't want the dull cold after that sweet sunlight, didn't want to give up that freedom just when he realised how much he had missed it.

Didn't want to meet Shizuku and be forced back into pretending and worming around questions. Not with Kasumi there to witness it.

"The way I see it, Midori-san's outpacing thought a little, too", Kasumi continued solemnly, oblivious to both demons and the change in Shiro. "She grew up without a language, an' she sees things quite different from us who did: she sees the core. The things that are beyond words."

The trail was nonexistent now, and underneath the rustling of twigs they pushed out of their way Shiro could hear a susurrus, claustrophobic sensation trill against his eardrums.

"I don't doubt that Pheles genuinely tries ta fit inta the human world, an' he's doin' a great job with it", she said somewhere beyond the murmuring, "but it never changes what 'e is at the core."

Was this what his dad had felt? Was this why he had distanced himself from his family more and more? Because there were things unsaid there that could never be said, wrongs made that could never be set right; and wasn't it so much easier to abandon ship and start anew, start again in a place where he didn't need to wear any mask?

" _…I'm becoming him more and more…_ "

The claustrophobic sensation grew stronger, as did the instinctive feeling to turn around and bolt. Shiro grit his teeth and did his best to fight the impulse down and keep walking. He had to do this. He _had_ to.

"That's what Midori-san sees: the demon Pheles", Kasumi continued without pause. "So ye're probably right when ye say there's the _person_ Pheles, too, but that's not the part o' him that has me worried."

Oh, she shouldn't worry about Pheles: behind her, Shiro drowned. That thin crack in his shield, that unbalance the conflicting feelings within him - so stupid! He clawed for the light beyond darkness that had blotted out his vision before he had time to react.

" _No, hell no, not now…!_ " He groped for control, tried to put a lid on the panic, but all he could think of was Kasumi a few steps ahead of him; Kasumi who shouldn't worry about him, Kasumi that he so desperately wanted to be a normal teenager with, Kasumi that must _not_ be hurt…!

"Ye alright back there?" She threw a glance over her shoulder, looking worried-

_looking as if she already knew_

"Yeah, I'm good. Just stumbled over a branch." Steady voice, steady face; please, _please_ … "Still got stitches in the leg, you know."

" ** _That's right: be a good boy and put on the mask. Be a good boy and pretend there's nothing wrong with you~_** "

Shiro stumbled on behind Kasumi like a drunkard, ducking the bombardment of old memories that threatened to weigh him down into unconsciousness – _Why didn't you come home last night? Mom was all worried, she stayed up, and she was crying!_ – with a body that was only half his. With a face that resembled his dad's so much.

" ** _Like father, like son. Killed himself, did he~? After he killed your mother. Oh don't lie to yourself: he killed her and you know it. His irresponsibility killed her. So why don't we put that old saying to the test fufufufufu~?_** "

No… _No…_

Shiro's blood ran cold. His mind reeled, letting the demon gain even more ground.

" ** _Since you worry so, little Shiro: let's see how much like your dad you are~_** " the shrill voice cackled joyfully in his head. " ** _If you kill her, will you kill yourself next…?_** "

No…!

His legs moved faster, his hand reached into his pocket for the knife-

" _Why the fuck do I carry a knife in situations like this!?_ "

He had to yell, at least warn her, had to do _something_ …!

Kasumi pushed through a thick hazel shrub and disappeared out of sight; Shiro's body gritted its teeth as it tried to open the tight fist he had willed his fingers to make. He wouldn't be grasping that knife. He _wouldn't_...!

Sunlight stung his eyes and made the demon's grip loosen for a split second: Shiro leapt at his chance with full force, and when he was out of the hazel… he was alone in his body.

They stood on a proper path, wide enough for three people at least. Both sides were flanked by lush forest, and the path itself was covered with warm, dust-breathing gravel that heated through the soles of his shoes. Kasumi's skin was caramel in the light, with that tuft of her tied-up hair glowing like a bush of dandelion seeds in the sun.

It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

"Ye really should stop smokin'", Kasumi observed, with both her eyebrows raised at the flustered, panting teenage guy in front of her. "Yer stamina fuckin' sucks."

She just stood there… and had no idea.

Shiro burst into the involuntary laughter of knotted nerves going slack. It was a laughter that wheezed out of him, trembling but relieved - so very relieved.

"Yeah. Yeah, I should." He ran a shaky hand through his hair, and felt the coarse hairs sting where his fingernails had dug holes in his palm. "Next time you might wanna keep me on a proper road."

"Listen ta pretty-boy speakin'", she chuckled. "I'm assuming ye were puffin' too loud ta hear what I said?" Kasumi looked at him in a way that reminded Shiro she was a Big Sister, and it was second nature to her to make sure Little Brothers were out of harm's way: not out of trouble's way, but a safe distance from harm's. "I was sayin' that it's not the person part o' Pheles that has me worried. The _person_ Pheles might want ta be ye' friend, but the _demon_ Pheles is a different story altagether: when it comes down to it, 'e's a fox and ye're a rabbit, an' every instinct in his body will be screamin' at 'im ta bite yer head off. One instant o' lost control on his part an' it could end badly for ya; one move wrong an' ye could snap 'is control like a dry twig." She tipped her head to the side and looked at- No, looked _through_ him. "Is it worth it?"

"Is it worth…?" his voice faltered.

"A friendship where ye have ta constantly be on guard. Watch ye' back, watch ye' tongue, watch ye' mind..." Her head tipped back up straight with a smile that was… the painful kind of soft. "...watch ye' heart. Is it worth it?"

Dagger. The soft, painful kind of dagger. Blind stab, right into the chest.

Is it worth it? Is friendship worth it if you have to be constantly on guard, constantly protect; constantly mistrust yourself and hide it…?

She just stood there… and had no idea…

_Is it worth it if the fox one day bites the rabbit?_

"It's worth it." Yet he sounded a lot more sure than he felt.

And when he followed Kasumi up the sundrenched hill, he could feel dark whispers swirl in his shadow.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N**
> 
> **Ring alarm bells:** a sign that something's not right, and you have reason to worry.


	24. ...thrice

Shiro could orientate himself, after a while. Kasumi had taken them on a shortcut to the path that led up to the little shrine that rested on a forested pinnacle in the wild parts of True Cross Town. He could hear Shizuku's distinct whistling long before he could see the shrine: a wooden building of humble proportions and traditional design. Shizuku sat on the ground, leaned against one of the stone banister posters, and let his skilled hands fly the whittling knife over a piece of wood.

"Would ye stop scarin' away the birds, ye tone deaf rake?"

"If I don't they might take ye' head fer a nest an' settle in", he returned easily and tucked the knife back into its sheath in the unrolled bundle of tools. "Hi, by the way." The gangly pilgrim stood, and stretched. "How's ye' leg?"

Shizuku remained tense, no matter if he stretched. Tense and fumbling like one not knowing what to say or where to start.

"Could've been better, could've been worse." Ngh, there should be a handbook for situations like this. First chapter: _how to start talking._ "Come down to formalities, has it?"

"It ain't formalities", Shizuku replied; and it really wasn't empty formality, when he wore that look. "I don't do formality: I care. But ye don't get that, do ya?"

Second chapter: _how to make the things you mean come out the right way._

"You mean I'm an unthankful bastard that doesn't like having people worrying for me?" Shiro developed, just to be sure. "'cause that's true." He kept his hands in the pockets of his trousers without really being aware of it, not knowing where else to put them to keep from fidgeting.

"Yeah, sure is." Shizuku went on to brush wood chips and dust off his school uniform. "But more than that; ye don't get the concept of caring." With nothing more to brush off or fidget with, he crossed his arms to keep his hands still. He was at least as uncomfortable as Shiro in this. But he was no coward. "I'm not sayin' ye aren't a good friend. Ye're fun ta be 'round, an' a great guy in many aspects – but deep down? Deep down ye're cold. I saw that in yer eyes the day I hit ye; I think it's why I did it." …majestic; how he stood firm by his words, even when the breath that carried them quivered at the edges. "'cause it scared me. I didn't want that ta be you." He chewed at his lip piercing, nervous… but his eyes never left Shiro's. "Either ye were like that from the very beginning, an' I just didn't notice; or it's something ye turned into when ya started hangin' 'round Pheles. I need ya ta tell me which it is, an' I need it ta be the truth."

"Right. The truth is I've always had a cold side." He brought his hand out of the pocket and held the switchblade in his palm. "I carry this around, don't I? And I know how to use it." He shoved it back into his pocket, and let his hand stay with it. "You said it yourself that I'm quite possibly the most unfriendly person you've met." He made a short pause, to let his next words build weight: "But I'm only like that when there's a need."

Truth – but not a truth that had Shizuku entirely satisfied.

"What was the need when Agari-chan was bein' shipped off ta the crematory?" Shiro suspected that if Kasumi hadn't been there, his flat tone would have had a much sharper edge. Shizuku wasn't buying it. But Shizuku felt strong responsibility for people. He _cared_ for people. He was a good, compassionate person.

" _…I so shouldn't do this._ "

The strings were there; all he needed to do was pull them. Carefully, carefully; like that fish-catching game Yasuda had been so good at.

"You would know, wouldn't you?" Just the right softness on the edges, making use of just the right information obtained from Kasumi. "You've buried family, too. Still, you had each other; you've always had each other." The right smile, the right hesitance. "I had no one. And I haven't been… _close_ to anyone, since." The right words – _can be forged into the key for any lock_ – oh, he shouldn't do this… "I haven't been to any funeral since, either. I'm only cold when I have to." The right sincerity, the right vulnerability. "And I only have to when there's something I need to protect myself from. I couldn't go, Shizu-san. I just couldn't." The right awkwardness; slightly faster paced speech to get it over with. "And Agari-chan loathed me, I know that. I don't think you wanna have a guy you hate say goodbye to you. I mean, imagine: would you wanna have Kita attend your funeral? Or the funeral of your family?" No: not in a million years, if he read the look on Shizuku's face right. "It doesn't- It's not fitting; even a blunt, blundering idiot like me knows that. I know Midori-chan went, but she's not exactly like ordinary people. She doesn't view things the same as we do." Kasumi would agree on that, wouldn't she? And now: slow the pace, shift towards earnestness. "I know I looked fucking horrible by comparison, but I was trying to honestly respect Agari-chan the way I thought she would've preferred." _Just hit him!_ memory echoed in his mind, accompanied by clashes of blade against blade and unnaturally muffled cracks of gunfire. "As her final wish." For him to be dead: that had been her final wish. "I really didn't mean any offence."

Shiro surveyed the fruits of his performance with feelings of guilt and excitement competing for dominance. It seemed like it would work: Shizuku could understand the holes gauged by loss, good old compassionate pilgrim, he could see the discomfort an emotional display caused Shiro…

_Is it worth it?_

"Always such an idiot…" Yes, it worked: Shizuku's voice let the tension go. There was even a smile on his face, but there was also a line of worry between his thick eyebrows. "But why Pheles? Why would anyone wanna", quick glance at Kasumi, "make friends with a demon?"

"…well, I think you'd have to be an idiot to understand that", Shiro replied, pushing towards a lighter mood with a small smile of his own. "Or a Futotsuki. I'm a little of both. I-"

"Why don't ya tell 'im the story ye told me earlier?" Kasumi suggested with a Big Sister smile, and broke the standing formation by seating herself comfortably against the shrine foundation. "Best understandin' comes from real-life example."

* * *

It's such a basic human thing, to want friends. To sit down on a sunny afternoon with a stomach full of watermelon and amanatto and laugh at silly stories: the kind of simple, precious thing that changes the world. Shiro was human, so very human in that aspect: and it's very, very human to embrace the aid of a demon to get those basic, precious things you want.

"Why don'tcha come ta the crafts market next week?" Kasumi suggested, now sitting by the post where Shizuku had been when they came. "It's gonna be on Mepphy Land's premises, so it ain't far. Shizzy's comin'", she nodded at her brother, who was still giddy with laughter from hearing of Mephisto's cupcakes, "an' that tanuki boy, an' maybe Sen an' Midori-san. How's that sound?"

"Sounds just great", he said around his cigarette, stretched out on his back on the ground and propped up on his lower arms. "But I've got more exams next week than all of them together."

"An' fe' pulling that off, ye deserve one afternoon o' fun", Shizuku concluded from his spot on a rock next to the shrine stairs.

"An' it'll be my last day in True Cross Town", Kasumi added with a knowing smirk. "After that I head out east."

"Now that you put it that way…" Shiro let his wolfish smile reach full potential. "Careful, though: prolonged exposure to me might delay your departure."

"Just can't keep ye'self from playin' with fire, can ye?" Shizuku guffawed, but showed no signs of disapproving the approach. "Yer own fault if ye get burnt. Ye might wanna know", he added with a wicked glint in his eyes, "ye've got competition~"

"Stuff it, Shizzy."

There really was-? Pff, of course there was. Kasumi travelled the entire length and width of Japan, and she was cute to boot. There was no way there wasn't some guy somewhere who'd-

Shiro had one of those awkward moments of perspective as the realisation hit him right in the face. 'Some other guy?' Kasumi met _hundreds_ of guys, and unless they had marbles for eyeballs at least half of them must be flirting with her. He was just one of many: _he_ was 'some other guy'. She probably didn't even-

"Ye should see yer face." Shizuku wore a grin that showed at least two- no, wait; maybe three molars. "How many times 'ave ya been proposed to, Kasu? I stopped countin' when I started at True Cross, but it was at least eight."

"I've only had one more since then. From that guy."

"Oh~ _that_ guy?" When Shizuku spotted material for teasing he looked _exactly_ like his sister. "S'that what kept ye an extra day with the Futotsukis~?"

Kasumi whacked him over the shoulder with her staff.

"What guy?" Shiro's big mouth asked for him. " _Great. That's_ one _good thing closing my heart does: words don't fucking fly out of my mouth before I can think._ "

"No guy." Kasumi used her staff like a rapier to jab the laughing Shizuku rapidly wherever openings presented themselves. "Just some asshat that's too dumb ta get a hint an' too naïve ta get properly told off." An unsuccessful dodge saw Shizuku hitting the ground. "An' that's not what had me delayed."

"Hey hey hey, I surrenda'! I surrenda'! Shit, man…" Shizuku rubbed his assaulted ribs, still chortling. "If Makoto-san knew how violent ye are, he'd save 'imself the trouble." He picked himself up and sat down on the grass next to Kasumi. "What kept ya, then?"

"I trekked from the Futotsukis an' down here: passed St. Nicholas on the way." The mirth immediately evaporated from Shizuku's face, and his shoulders sank a few centimetres. "They were still diggin' out the bodies, so I volunteered ta help."

"St. Nicholas…?" Again, words were out of Shiro's mouth before he could think. Like a reflex. A reflex that made something flicker in the back of his mind although he couldn't quite grasp it. The name didn't feel familiar on his tongue; yet he had reacted as if it were…

"Orphanage, northwest-west between True Cross Town an' the Futotsuki's territory", Shizuku summarized in sombre tones, and looked back to Kasumi. "I heard it was pretty bad."

"All bad an' none pretty. It struck in the middle o' night when everybody was asleep an' brought the place down like a card house." Haggard sadness, raw and sudden, discoloured Kasumi's pixie face. "Ninety-two dead, no survivors."

"What struck? Demons…?"

"Oh, that's right: ye were away when it happened", Shizuku recalled. "Earthquake. St. Nicholas was built ta hold fe' that – it wasn't even a big one, but the orphanage was at the epicentre. An' it just collapsed."

St. Nicholas.

" _There's something about that name._ "

"Well, it's a good thing the place was so isolated", Kasumi's voice drifted vaguely through his ears while his thoughts were busy elsewhere. "Nothin' else around that could be damaged. Ye gotta be grateful fe' the small blessings."

" _I've heard that before; but why would that…?_ "

"I prayed fe' them, when I heard about it on the news. 's the kind o' thing that makes ye wish ye coulda' done more, but…"

_St. Nicholas_

Why did that ring a bell?

_St. Nicholas_

Why was that name important?

_St. Nicholas_

Why did he feel like he really ought to remember…?

_St. Nicho-_

"Guys, I… need to get back to studying." _Immediately_. "If I'm gonna have that free afternoon with you at the market, that is." He stumbled up on his feet, glad he could blame the leg for the unsteadiness. "I've had a great day, really, but duty calls." Oh, it sure did. "Thanks. I'll see you around."

* * *

Shiro walked at fast pace down the sloping trail. Once he'd rounded a turn and was out of sight, he jogged. When his thoughts were done processing, he ran.

Orphanage. Earthquake. Festival. Futotsuki meeting.

" _I see them._ "

Strings thin as spider web, winding into the shadows; he wouldn't have noticed them, if he hadn't been at that meeting and seen them pulled.

strings hidden in the darkness

" _If it really is you…_ "

connecting one thing to another

" _…if you did what I think you did…_ "

weaving coincidences into skilful geometry

" _…then you have things to explain, Mephisto._ "

with the spider at the nexus

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N**
> 
> **Ring a bell:** recall something.


	25. Chess

Daylight was dimming, but Mephisto was still in his office: Shiro could feel it. Feel it in every bristling hair on his body.

" _You are not worming yourself out of this._ " His steps echoed heavily in the empty corridor. " _I don't fucking care if I'm one human up against the King of Time: you are_ not _getting away with something like this._ " The echo of war drums.

* * *

"Normally, people knock." The demon didn't even look up from his chessboard.

"Monkeys aren't people. I figured you wouldn't be very busy this time of day anyway." He sauntered over to the heavy wooden desk with his hands in his pockets – the lighter was already gone. "I met Kasumi-chan today: she told me to pass greetings to you."

"Then give her my greetings in return~ Charming girl, that; pity she has those distasteful tattoos."

Mephisto still hadn't even looked at him. Could it really be so concentration demanding to make the first move against yourself, or was he ignoring him deliberately?

"She should've been here yesterday, but she got held up on her way down from the Futotsuki's", said Shiro casually, and seated himself on the edge of the desk: if that didn't get Mephisto's attention, then-

*poof*

An armchair from the striped furniture set around the table appeared in front of the desk, demanding to be used.

"As I was saying, she got held up", he continued, rising from the desk but ignoring the chair. "There had been some kind of accident while we were away at the meeting. Earthquake, I think. She stayed and prayed for the victims – ninety dead, or around those figures."

"What a lovely date you must have had, with such topics", he smiled, still pondering where to place his first white piece.

"At least I _can_ date her, warding tattoos and all. But we did get into discussing earthquakes." Shiro intently studied the thin lips, the hair curl, the ears, the eyes lowered at the board; anything that could betray a reaction. "The one that struck there – St. Nicholas, I think the place was called – wasn't very strong, but it still shook the place to pieces, and left no survivors. None, out of the ninety-two that lived there." No reaction. Idly turning his chess piece between his fingers, as if he wasn't even listening. "I just thought I should ask, since you've got a brother that's King of Earth", he ventured, connecting the dots Mephisto pretended to be blissfully unaware of. "If a weak earthquake occurs within a very small perimeter, can it still be that destructive?"

A very, _very_ small perimeter, with St. Nicholas in the epicentre.

"My brother is the expert, admittedly, but I suppose it could", was his reply. "Small quakes are very common, especially here in Japan. They seldom cause any damage – unless they hit gas pipes in poor condition, as I believe was the case with the one you speak of."

"You seem to know quite a bit about it." Doubt evaporated slowly off his heating temper as the perfect façade remained _perfect_. "Does that name ring a bell with you? St. Nicholas?"

"Never met him in person", Mephisto confessed. "Greece was a lovely place to live, in ancient times, but Christianity always did tend to spoil one's fun. I think we missed each other by at least eight centuries."

"I meant the place: the orphanage St. Nicholas." Shiro's voice took on an edge of crude, grating steel. "The one that was completely bulldozed in a very unnatural earthquake while you were getting yourself a perfect alibi at the Futotsuki meeting."

"Such harsh tones~" At least he looked at him, even if it was a blithe look of I-have-no-idea-why-you're-so-upset that tempted Shiro to smash his teeth in. "I'm King of Time, you know; I believe the one you should be directing your glares at is the King of Earth."

A silver tongue to veil any lie in the light of truth; a sweet voice to make bitter poison appear like pristine ambrosia. The most devious weapon in a demon's arsenal.

Shiro stared the black-suited, smooth-talking snake down over the desk. He could send an entire clan of demons to their death, fine: demon society, demon rules. But an orphanage of human children…

_There are some things you just don't do._

"So it's complete coincidence that that was the orphanage Agari-chan was from?" he said in low, calm tones that answered the question on their own.

The mask didn't slip, no. Mephisto could have been confronted with mountains of conclusive evidence and still worn that face of idle innocence. No: he took the mask off, and revealed the calculating amusement underneath.

Amusement.

Not guilt or regret or pity: amusement.

"Katsuda Agari, Komui Natsuya, Ayabito Susumu, Inoue Katsu, Sato Michio, Kobayashi Shizue." His lilting voice trickled over the names like a creek over rocks. "All orphans, adopted from St. Nicholas: all trained there to be fully capable exorcists before they ever set foot in my academy."

_Trained...?_

Orphans... trained...?

The words seeped into him like winter's breath through an old door. Trained orphans. An assassination squad of sleeper agents. Child soldiers for a suicide mission; children that had lost everything already, except their lives. What despicable mind would-

"St. Nicholas was a Catholic orphanage…" Pieces fit together; thoughts raced ahead, kicked in doors and surveyed possibilities. "It couldn't be, the Vatican…?" That wasn't the real question, of course. " _Why is he telling me this?_ " Mephisto didn't play with open cards, not even with the promise of trust in mind. " _He trusts you alright_ ", a cynical part of his mind huffed. " _He trusts you to be smart enough to figure out his game through tracing strings and guessing riddles. Teaching you to think like a demon._ "

Did he even want to-?

Oh, he wanted to. Danger had only ever spurred his curiosity on. There is a twisted fascination with mystery and malice in the human heart; and his heart…

_Am I a master smith? Am I shaping you this very moment, for some distant purpose in a future only I can see?_

…was marked by the devil in the high-backed chair.

"My Roman bed-mate may be a cold lover, but not so cold as to hide a dagger beneath her pillow", Mephisto said with an air of cool, well-measured amusement. "St. Nicholas specifically accepted children orphaned in demon attacks: aside the usual education, said orphans were also given rigorous training in exorcism and military combat. This somewhat unusual childcare was privately funded, by an anonymous founder who has turned out to be a Cardinal Basilio Tanzi." The chess piece rolled back and forth between his fingers, back and forth as he surveyed his game board with lazy, heavy-lidded eyes. "A Cardinal who, the day after the incident in Deep Keep, left his residence to live at an unknown location. The only contact the rest of the world has had with him since is sporadic messages by telex."

Shiro didn't play chess, but he knew enough of it to catch the irony: the piece between Mephisto's fingers was a bishop.

"You look awfully calm, given the circumstances. You don't think he's told anyone by now?"

"Omniscient am I not, but much is known to me: had there been whispers of my name in the corridors of Headquarters I would have known. Tanzi is a fool, not an idiot." He snapped his fingers and summoned a paper to his desk. "Chess is won by stratagem, not by numbers: he sent no army to contest me, but six assassins carefully cloaked in inconspicuousness."

He slid the paper over to Shiro, whose first thought was that the demon must've been in a hurry when he wrote. After a closer look, he discarded it altogether as something written by Mephisto. The crinkly paper was covered in crude, impatient handwriting jotted down with a plain ballpoint pen – which meant those splotches weren't Mephisto's deep red ink…

"Katsu Inoue came here 1965, and made a very good impression on the teachers: good enough to be admitted apprenticeship as guard in Deep Keep."

_Katsu Inoue: infiltration, armed support, recconnassanse_

"Komui Natsuya, Kobayashi Shizue and Sato Michio enrolled three years later; Katsu was in position by then, and had confirmed that the dimensional pocket could not be accessed without disabling the wards that sealed it."

_Komui Natsuya: marksman, armed support, reconaissanse_

_Kobayashi Shizue: low-level psychic, ability to dowse for energy signatures_

_Sato Michio: swordsman, armed support, reconassanse_

"Das Labyrinth des Limbus must've proven quite the obstacle for Kobayashi-chan: it wasn't until the last two cogs in the machinery were accepted into the Academy this previous year that they could reach the wards in there. Katsuda Agari bought her basic materials from True Cross Town and the exorcist supply shop, and devised an arsenal of surprisingly sophisticated timed explosive devices to wipe out the entire seal at once."

_Katsuda Agari: explosives technician, armed support_

"Ayabito Susumu was quite the interesting case", Mephisto mused on, resting his cheek in his hand with the elbow supported on the desk. "A genius of numbers that not only fortified the seal to isolate my heart, but drew up formulas for navigating inside my labyrinth."

_Ayabito Susumu: mathematician, specialised in surjective ~~homomom~~ ~~homephism~~ HOMEOMORPHISM_

And, tilting on its own down in one corner, smudged when the paper had been carelessly shoved into a pocket: _I can't spell recconnassiense, Aniue_

"He even learnt the chant from the Essene scrolls by heart." Mephisto turned the game piece over in his hand slowly, thoughtfully; and made Shiro's intestines tie themselves in knots. "I located the demon who told the Cardinal what those scrolls really contained, and she gave me the same name: Tanzi." The white bishop resumed its place on the board with a soft, clean click.

"And you can't find him…" Shiro murmured, eyes lingering on the bishop hiding behind its row of loyal pawns. The last man on earth who knew Mephisto's true name. One man that could ruin everything he had worked for during one and a half century.

"Tanzi spent near thirty years preparing for his move, and spent just as long preparing his retreat if it failed: hiding from me is very difficult, but he succeeds. He succeeds, because he knows who I am." The glimmer in the eyes was the same, and the sneer that danced on his lips was the same, but that was Samael: Shiro knew, because he noticed he had stopped breathing. "And he knows how eager I am to meet him. He isn't coming out of his shelter for as long as he lives, nor is there anyone outside it who could help him if he revealed what he knows. He hopes", there was a tone hissing around that word that sent chills down Shiro's spine, "that if he buries himself alive, silent and compliant, I won't see any point in digging him out." The demon's presence tensed, curled: a predator ready to leap. "It will be an arduous undertaking, certainly, but I do appreciate a challenge: it's very rude, if nothing else, to resign mid-game."

" _He hides it well…_ " But an imprinted heart could tell that Mephisto was absolutely, hellishly furious.

"Tanzi may have surrounded himself with every imaginable defence against demons, but I will make him finish the game he started."

…and Shiro understood why Mephisto was sharing this information with him.

"I'm not doing it", he said coldly. " _Every imaginable defence against demons, but none against humans; is that it?_ " He could see where this was going, and he would dig his heels into the dirt before Mephisto's smooth-talking got a syllable further. "I'm not becoming your private hitman. If you want the Cardinal dead, you're gonna have to do it yourself."

"Dead?" He looked genuinely surprised that anybody would dream of associating such a word with his pristine white appearance: which at the moment was switched for pitch black. "Shiro, Shiro, who ever said anything of killing? 'To subdue the enemy without fighting is the acme of skill.'"

"And where do ninety-two orphans fit into that quote?" Cold heart, cold mind, cold voice: he didn't sound like a nineteen year old, not even in his own ears.

"In chess there is always sacrifices." Mephisto's voice was light and carefree, but his eyes were sharp with focus. "Tanzi was well aware of that when he sent his assassins into the fray."

Shiro felt as though his windpipe had been blocked with a fistful of burning coal.

" _You inhuman fucking...!_ " In chess there were sacrifices, yes: but reality wasn't a bloody game. Real lives weren't game pieces that-

_To a demon they are._

Time stopped, and his breath ached past the tight knot in his throat. He met the green gaze of the demon posing as a man before him: there was no guilt in that face, because demons feel no such thing. No pity, no shame, no concept of human right and wrong.

" _To a demon we're just puppets and playthings._ "

Time regained momentum, and Shiro shuddered involuntarily. His gaze fell away: fell to the chessboard, where the neatly lined-up pawns formed walls of faceless cannon fodder: genderless, featureless, unimportant meat shields whose sole purpose was to fight and die at the hands of the kings that moved them.

_…fight and die… in the gloved hands of the king that moved him…_

"Chess is a game of war", Mephisto spoke softly, seeing where Shiro's attention lay. "As long as war is waged, lives are lost: until one king surrenders, no piece on the board is safe." Green eyes sought his, and gloved fingers braided together to form a podium for the words that left the demon's mouth. "Some would say it's testimony of a player's skill to capture the king with subtly layered traps: the true master of the game, however, needs no traps or decoys. The true master is the one that can pull checkmate with the naked elegance of a single move." Mephisto rested his eyes on him expectantly, waiting… "The acme of skill." …waiting for him to make his move.

Shiro's breath fell from his lips, and the ground from underneath his feet.

Skilled he was. And not only at war games.

Checkmate in one move. Checkmate with only one piece: one piece that could ensure no others had to be sacrificed again. One piece that was prepared to do anything to wash its black conscience a little whiter.

Shiro clenched his teeth around the haunting echo of that single gunshot in Deep Keep.

One bullet

One chess piece

One choice

" _You devil…_ "

Know your enemy, and you can predict his actions

" _No one knows the human heart like a demon._ "

Predict your enemy's actions, and you can lead him wherever you like

" _No one knows mine like you do._ "

To the true master, the enemy is but another game piece to be played

" _…I never played by the rules._ "

"Let's be clear about one thing, Samael." Indeed, names are powerful things. Now that he paid attention, Shiro could see it affecting him, too. Mephisto didn't wince, as other demons would have, but he wasn't used to hearing that name any more than they were. "I don't give a damn about your schemes and vendettas. You'll do as you please – as you always do – but I'm not your game piece. I will not be moved by you, or anyone else. This pawn", he picked a matte black piece off the board, "is not part of the game." Without breaking eye contact, he grimly put the pawn down on the desk with a hard click.

There. A challenge. A declaration of war, against war, for continued war: it crackled in the air between them; demon and human, king and pawn. Let's see how he dealt with-

"Oooh, I like that look!" Liked? Mephisto seemed about to fly out of his chair with excitement, white-clad hands flat on his desk and eyes-

-Shiro had never seen his eyes opened up like this, had never seen them _burn_ like this, never-

"Such determination! Such cold flame in those eyes! No use arguing against a man with a look like that upon his features: I bow to your decision." …What? "Your move may be rather, so to speak, unorthodox", the green eyes darted down to the pawn for a moment, and returned with only glowing coals remaining of the fire, "but the right to move is yours alone."

The element of surprise may be a fundamental part of war strategy, but no one could work it like Mephisto. He simply dropped the matter? Just like that?

Shiro's brow furrowed.

"You're not…? Not gonna go after the Cardinal, then?"

"There are countless ways to capture a king", he said flippantly, and produced a packet of chocolate-flavoured pocky out of the air. "'Water shapes its course according to the nature of the ground over which it flows', and so the strategy changes to suit the game." The pocky stick snapped between the sharp teeth in his smile. "I can play one piece short."

 _And win regardless_ , the unfinished sentence continued silently. _Though there might be a few pieces captured and sacrificed before I do._

"…I'll never figure out how you do it. How you switch from creepy-as-fuck back to normal like this." Shiro snapped his fingers. "If this is your normal", he added, studying the human face that housed no human mind.

No, completely unfazed. Calm and untroubled and mildly surprised. And amused. Always amused; no matter how dark or hostile atmospheres were, no matter if ninety died or nine hundred, there always seemed to be a smile hiding in the corners of that mouth. Normal wasn't a word that applied to Mephisto in any form.

"Stevenson made a rather good study of that." The demon underlined the statement with a tap of the half pocky stick. "Jekyll and Hyde are one and the same, separated only by human conscience; which I am, quite logically, not afflicted with. That's one of the great ironies my employers in Headquarters have always failed to see the humour in", he continued, amusement bringing his odd cadence to bounce to the idle conducting of the pocky. "While humans live a lie, demons are always honest about what they are." And with a conscienceless smile and a wink, he ate the remainder of the stick.

The ground... was back under his feet. More solid than ever before. More hard and uncompromising than ever before.

There was no demon Mephisto or person Mephisto: there was only Mephisto. The King of Time. A demon without conscience. So gruesomely honest that the human mind couldn't comprehend it.

"…I'm gonna have to think about that for a while", Shiro murmured, and put a cigarette between his teeth. "And I'm gonna need my lighter."

"You come to yell at me, and then immediately leave when you're done? Tsk tsk, such manners."

Manners...?

Shiro had completely forgotten that there was such a word: completely forgotten that even if he played human lives like puppets, Mephisto would always crinkle his nose at sloppy ties and saucers that didn't match the cups. Jekyll and Hyde, all at once, always.

"It's your own fault, in every way", Shiro pointed out over his shoulder, headed for the door and the long, _long_ walk this would take. "I'll be having exams every single day for two weeks, Sir I-okay-all-schedule-drafts-while-I'm-watching-anime. And I need grades to justify that scholarship you got me."

"Such a model student." Mephisto snapped his fingers, and the lighter returned to its usual pocket. "You will make a fine exorcist, I'm sure."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:**
> 
> I don't use the name of any real Cardinal, since I'm not that keen on being accused of slander. I will give Tanzi the title of a real Cardinal, however; he can't very well go without one. =/
> 
>  **Telex** is a network for sending text messages. Like a very, very old-fashioned fax interbred with a landline phone.
> 
>  **There were few quotes** on war strategy from Sun Tzu's The Art of War, and a few tweaked additions of my own to fit the chess metaphor.
> 
> **Omniscient am I not, but much is known to me >/strong> Quoting Goethe here, and choosing to go with his Mephisto before Kato's.**
> 
>  **In the manga,** Mephisto says "I know everything". Without hearing him say it, I have a hard time knowing if he means "I know everything (that has happened with Godain and your friends)" or "I know everything (literally everything)". He could probably mean the latter, given his convenient method of spying on anyone, but that would make him a tad OP imo. Omnipotence is no fun. ^_^' A character that knows everything and can do (almost) anything kills a story.
> 
> So I couldn't go with canon all the way, which I apologise for. x/ In my defence, he's just as curious as anyone else to "find out what lies ahead", as he puts it: so he might not know literally everything.
> 
>  **The Essene** were the Christian sect that preserved and hid what we know as the Dead Sea Scrolls (that I used in arc 1). There's a fair amount of conspiracy theories around those, for those interested in such things.
> 
>  **Surjective homeomorphism**  
>  I am in no way a mathematical-minded person. Merely wrapping my head around the terms I had to investigate to piece together this (admittedly self-contradictive) field of science made me haemorrhage from my auditory canals. I may have gotten things entirely wrong, too. x')
> 
> So, topology is a field of geometry in mathematics that concerns deformation of objects in space: things, plain and simple, and how they can be stretched and bent in the dimensions they exist in.
> 
> Homeomorphism, if I have understood it correctly, is deformation from one shape to another. It's based on a set of continuous functions coupled with inverse functions, which in simple English means that object A will deform into object B, and then back into object A endlessly: the deformation only moves between object A and object B, nothing else.
> 
> That's where I added surjection. Surjection means that function A, B and C all can yield Q, and reversely Q can give you either A, B or C depending on which part of the graph (or in topology: which part of the object) you're looking at.
> 
> To sum it up, surjection is incompatible with the concept of homeomorphism; but if it theoretically were possible to use the two in junction, you would get a deformation of an object that is both erratic (turns into A, B, or C) and inconsistent between different parts of the object (one part may go from Q to C, while another decides to go from Q to A). You would get a house where your bathroom door could lead both to the bathroom and to the living room, closet, or pantry (or some stage between those) depending on the deformation of that specific part of space in the specific moment you open the door. You would get das Labyrinth des Limbus.


	26. Choices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @ Write_Like_An_American  
> ...so I have no idea if you get notified when I reply to your comments or not, since you're logged out, but I did reply to the one on Inferno and I think it's a reply you wanna read. =P

Choice. The deceptively simple single-syllable word that rules every human life, and the entirety of human history. Each choice made is a chisel-stroke that carves the world to be: and each discarded possibility peeled away is the seed of a world that could have been.

Each choice shapes the future.

Each choice is shaped by the human who makes it.

Each choice shapes the human who makes it.

And since their very first Choice at the dawn of time, humans have excelled at choosing wrong.

* * *

" _Am I doing the right thing?_ "

Shiro tapped the cigarette restlessly with a finger. Uncounted kilometres disappeared beneath his feet without taking him anywhere; smoke travelled in and out of his lungs without dredging up any answer. He wasn't the one pulling the trigger, but... Hadn't he just killed an unknown number of faceless, featureless pawns…?

" _Just like he did._ "

Soldiers - _orphans_. Assassins - _kids_. How could words make such a difference? How is it that words decide if a victory is a loss? If the one who wins the loss is a hero or a murderer?

Words…

" _Yeah: all you need is words, you slippery old goat. They sure make life a hell of a lot harder for humans._ "

Mephisto didn't have any choice but to protect his secret: Shiro could understand that. If the Order found out who he really was there would be distrust and expulsion and a hunt that bordered on war; war with death tolls sky-high in the human ranks. In that sense, sacrificing a few to spare many…

" _They were kids._ "

Indoctrinated kids that had never had a choice. Maybe they could have been reasoned with, could have been made to take reason and even end the conflict; and instead...

" _There are things you just don't do._ "

There are unforgivable things, and it doesn't matter if you have a conscience or not: the act itself is- Tch, listen to the hypocrite preach! Wasn't he cold, when he had to? Hadn't he killed rather than reasoned? And hadn't he just made a choice that would kill even more…?

" _Fuck, I don't know, I…_ " Shiro ran a hand through his unkempt hair for the umpteenth time. It didn't clear his thoughts up one bit: embracing the imprint or suppressing it – what was he doing, really? " _Am I doing the right thing…?_ " Leaving lives to be tossed and torn by the winds of war: not exactly the paragon of kindness. " _If I helped him get to the Cardinal…_ " Help a demon get his claws on a man of the church? " _Hell – pick your poison, that's all it is._ "

Shiro's conscience kep whining like a hungry dog at the back of his mind, pawing and scratching at him to do something. Well, what was he supposed to do, then? Back at the same old crossroads, with the same impossible choice: who lives and who dies? Sacrifice one to spare many…? Was it right? Was it wrong? Should he stand idly by and watch Mephisto hunt Tanzi down, clinging to hypocritical innocence, or should he...

" _Tch, he'll get the Cardinal, with or without my hand in it: my options are 'save people' or 'don't save people'._ "

That should make the choice easier: should make it a lot easier. So why had he turned the offer down…?

" _I don't exactly care for Tanzi…_ "

No, on the contrary: a coward who trained kids – no, _raised_ kids, like lambs for slaughter – to fight his war, while he sat comfortably in a red dress in Italy and counted rosary beads… Shiro had no sympathy for a man like that.

" _He started this whole damn circus; let him have what's coming_ ", he thought grimly.

That was to simplify things. A lot. Shiro knew that. It was a different story from the Cardinal's perspective: of course it was scary to learn that Satan's son had wheedled himself into the Order. Of course you'd try to do what you believed was right…

" _Choices: always these damn choices._ "

…but a man of the church ought to know better. Didn't they teach Forgiveness and Understanding and all those things important enough to earn capital letter?

" _That you have a crap dad doesn't mean you're crap, too. He might be a demon…_ " Shiro drew a breath on his cigarette. That calm look on Mephisto's face, a look no human could wear when admitting something like that… " _…but hasn't he made choices?_ " Choices like leaving Gehenna for Assiah, putting his own life at stake in denouncing his father and joining the Order of the True Cross, aiding humans in building a force to resist the hordes of he-

Shiro chuckled darkly as the irony struck him. Tanzi trained kids to fight his war, eh?

" _And you train your kids to fight yours._ " It was so warped and twisted it was almost funny. " _And sacrificing demons to win those kids advantages in that war. That's not chess you play; it's chess and shogi and othello, all mixed up with rules only you know._ "

He blew smoke up at a darkening sky that was still light enough that you didn't feel like going to bed. A perfect night for walking. Summer paced with sure steps towards exams and did her best to distract students with warm evenings and song of birds and cicadas in the heavy foliage in the parks. And less pleasant things. Daylight waning, he could feel the prickling attention of demons lick over his consciousness as he walked, and let his heart grow dead and cold in the warmth: the merry chirping fell hollow on his ears, and the magic shimmer of the sunset dulled. All around him, the world faded behind the veil of safety. Snug and safe like an isolation cell. No open cracks this time.

Oh, it had advantages. The reaction time between decision and action was much shorter without all sidetracking doubts laid out by compassion. The world around him was easier to survey tactically, with emotional response and other distractions dulled. He'd heard the word from Matsuri-sensei plenty of times after missions: efficient. A word a demon could use – what's an efficient exorcist, when you think about it? An efficient soldier. An efficient killer. A cold-hearted bloody machine.

" _If I help you capture the bishop, no other pieces need to be taken?_ " he pondered, and drew another breath of smoke as he walked a world stripped down to its bare bones: a world of faceless chess pieces and positions that could be surrendered or defended. " _That's a nice bargain. I should take it, shouldn't I? You know it eats me, what I did down in Deep Keep. You know I'd have it undone if I could – that I would've saved everyone, if I'd had that choice._ " He rested his eyes on the glow of his cigarette, a smoulder gently burning holes in the dusk. " _I have that choice now: you gave it to me._ "

He frowned: even under lockdown, the wrongness of the words struck a chord of caution that made him shudder. Demons don't _give_ : they _sell_. And that's where doubt gnawed at him: there had been no mention of what Mephisto would gain if he accepted the offer. Only that strange flare in his eyes.

" _I don't know what kind of game you play, but I'm not gonna be part of it._ " Selfish. A selfish coward, just like his father; running from the mess he had helped create rather than- " _Fuck that_ ", he snarled at his thoughts. " _This ain't no ordinary mess._ " Get stuck in that intricate shadow-web and you were never coming out of it. " _I'm not gonna be anybody's pawn: even if that means more people will die._ " Shiro could almost feel the excited hiss from demons applaud his decision. His _choice_.

"Look tasty, do I?" he said to the night, and tapped ash off his cigarette. "Why don't you come at me, you fucks? Afraid of one puny human?"

He wasn't exactly armed, but one switchblade knife can deal good damage when the blade is soaked in holy water: and he was in the mood for fighting something. Thinking of impossible dilemmas frustrated him, charged his patience with a static that would somehow, sooner or later, have to be discharged.

"Tch, demons", he huffed at the darkness when nothing answered his taunt. "Always playing their bloody games."

And the more powerful they were, the more dangerous the games. It didn't bother him as much as it should have. The game. The scheme. The unspoken goal. Mephisto knew what he was doing: Tanzi didn't. There had never been an earthquake at St. Nicholas if there hadn't been exorcists there that knew secrets humans weren't supposed to know.

Humans like Shiro: how folly unites the human race! Tanzi and Fujimoto, the only two humans in the world who knew! The only two humans in the world that might have a chance at stopping the devil that pulled strings in the darkness.

Pff, "stop him"... Tanzi had tried, and now he was hiding in a warded bunker that would be his grave. "Stopping him" was a delusion for suicidal fools. Mephisto was far too smart to get caught, far too skilled at the game he played…

" _Heh… hehehehahahahaha oh you clever, sneaky son of a bitch…!_ "

Far too smart to get caught, far too skilled to suffer consequences even if he were caught - but far too much of a gambler to play it safe. There's no fun without risk, no thrill without danger; didn't Shiro understand that better than anyone? Wasn't that why Mephisto had taken off the mask and offered him to play?

" _Not a pawn, but a joker._ " He chuckled; chuckled the way you do when the devil reaches forth a hand and invites you to dance. " _Always appreciate a challenge, do you? A game within the game, a piece that knows it's a piece and moves erratically on the board; wouldn't that be fun? Wouldn't that be a much more interesting game?_ " Wouldn't that be one hell of a dance?

The mere fact that it tempted him spoke volumes. Fujimoto Shiro the prankster, Fujimoto Shiro the daredevil: would he actually dare the devil, and play his game…?

" _You'd think I have a death wish._ "

Yes, but not a wish for death: a wish for life. A wish for life the way it fluttered at the top of your lungs when it sucked the breath out of you. Some are cut out for a run-of-the-mill existence, some aren't. Some are born to gamble at the highest stakes; drawn like moth unto flame.

There would be even more choices on the game board; terrible choices, if you had a conscience. Mephisto would make the ones that furthered his cause – whatever the hell that was – without thinking twice about it, but Shiro would-

" _I would be the conscience he hasn't got._ " His feet moved more slowly, then, as he pondered all that would mean.

Off the board, you can only watch the game.

On the board, you can play it.

On the board, he'd have a say against destroying orphanages and-

" _Is it worth it?_ " Kasumi's voice. Kasumi's face, sincere with emotion. For him.

Shiro stopped entirely, frozen on the asphalt path seemingly for no reason.

" _If Shiro-kun wants to pretend is fine, I will pretend it is._ " Midori's eyes, filled with melting gold…

Choices aren't isolated events. There are ripples on the water where they fall, touching everything that lies around.

Shizuku talked to him again. Kasumi flirted back when he made advances; he would go to the crafts market with both them and Ryuuji, he had a scholarship to continue his studies, a promising future as an exorcist… For the first time, a promising future.

It's easier to gamble when you haven't got so much to lose; when you haven't got so _many_ to lose.

_Is it worth it?_

No. No, he was better off beside the board. Tanzi was a fool for thinking he could play against Mephisto: wouldn't he be an even greater jackass, if he thought he could steer the game on the demon's own half of the board? No, the stakes were too high, the gains too uncertain. Leave it to the demon to play: to whatever end that meant.

" _I have no idea what your goal is, but…_ " Shiro stomped out the cigarette butt on the paved walkway. " _…I know you want Assiah safe._ " The conviction that held the ground firm under his feet whenever he lost himself in guesses and speculation: Mephisto wanted Assiah safe. It was a downright ridiculous claim to make, unless you knew who that white-clad jester really was. " _You could've destroyed it all long ago if you wanted to. You could've enslaved humanity in a day and built a new Gehenna with yourself as king. It's been a thousand years and more, and you still haven't._ " The strangeness of it all condensed into a small smile on his lips; the kind of smile Midori smiled, aglow with secrets and the soft warmth of knowing not in mind, but in heart. " _You may not have a conscience, but you really do like humans._ "

Not all who knew Mephisto's identity had made that connection, however. Cardinal Tanzi ought to have put two and two together when he learnt Samael's true name: instead, he had chosen to wage war against the most powerful demon that had ever set foot in Assiah. Attack in chess, and you will receive due response.

" _I don't know what you think, Mephisto, but to me he sounds like an idiot._ "

* * *

Smart people can make stupid choices, and stupid people can make smart choices: because Choice is a wild guess veiled in the illusion of free will. Choice, just like Chance, is a deceptive nature, revealing its true form only in the curves and dents of the future it creates: whether a choice is right or wrong is left for time to uncover. But, regardless, some things will always be true.

Each choice shapes the future.

Each choice is shaped by the human who makes it.

Each choice shapes the human who makes it.

…and even at the dawn of time, when humans made their very first Choice, the options were whispered into their ears with serpentine sweetness.


	27. Names

_Samael_

Centuries had passed since anyone spake that name to him - ah, depending on how one would define 'speak', of course. The spoken word was ever his ally: it was shield and sword and dagger, key and lock and chain; truly, there were words for every need. The unspoken word, however…

One word spoken may have the power to lay nations in ruin, but the unspoken word can rend the fabric of a world: there is no lock to keep it out, no shield to guard against those silent syllables that could send memories unbidden rippling through flesh and mind.

_Samael_

Names are powerful things. There had been a time when Matter was pulled out of the Void by Name alone, and given the shape and purpose inherent in that one true Name. Those had been glorious days, stupendous days; days of marvel at the power that reverberated throughout Creation; from the timid dewdrops on a blade of grass to the slow breath of newborn mountains, that power, that splendour… faded.

Ages had passed since then, and Names once radiant had faded: light dimmed, darkness greyed, edges unsharpened; a driftwood world abandoned to the river of time, shorn by disasters and smoothed slowly back to the nothingness from which it once rose. Ages, ages past count and contemplation. Now was the Age of Man, and new creation shaped the world: too weak to know true power, too young to remember Names, humans shrank from the Void in awe and turned to things their minds could understand – and how they used their minds! Ever curious, ever yearning for more than they possessed, they rode high on achievements' intoxication in search of new things to desire and obtain; claimed the thrones of gods and shaped the world to the whims of a thousand minds, shaped it twisted and horrid and beautiful! So many new things, so many new names, and amidst it all…

_Samael_

…amidst it all, an echo transported across millennia through the mouth of a mere human boy. A Name from an age when names held true power; an age when there had been Beings in the world that knew how to speak those Names and command that power.

An echo…

In that boy's face today, there had been an echo… an echo of kings and warlords long dead; great men of great name in the world of Assiah. The faint, dying echoes of the Ones that could speak Names.

" _A pawn, Shiro…?_ " The corners of his lips curled as he picked up the stray piece. "Don't humble yourself, little lion", he murmured softly, watching with lidded eyes how the dimming light reflected off matte black as he turned the pawn between his fingers. "Humility is ill suited for the paths you will be walking." The game piece returned to its proper place with the smooth, barely audible click of well-greased cogs turning. "Men like you take life not in single steps but strides." Gloved fingertips walked slowly across the line of marble: castle, knight, bishop… "And reach road's end sooner."

His finger lingered on the queen: an unstoppable force, able to move in any direction, ready go to any lengths at one swift command from the game master.

_Samael_

One day, perhaps, if Lady Chance would have it so; if that blazing fire didn't burn itself out before then, before that little lion grew proper fangs…

"Slave under the yoke of Curiosity, yet each weight Knowledge adds to your burden spurs your desire for more; is it not a twisted, vicious circle, Shiro~? Is it not a beautifully mesmerizing maelstrom into the dark depths, where jagged teeth of rock lie in wait for prey?" he purred, tongue curling around the words like a serpent's tail. "So many broken bodies litter the abyss of Temptation; so many souls eaten empty that consume themselves in rapture… but you won't be one of them, little lion." The queen tilted under his finger, tilted to stare up at him without face or eyes. "Men like you don't break from Temptation's fall, nor perish in the fires of Perdition: men like you rise out of the pit like shadows of shadows born; emerge from flame tempered strong like fine steel." The grin widened as his eyes traced the paths of the future – oh, what a future! – and the possibilities they promised. "What a man you could become, Shiro~"

It was in the nature of every human to shape the world around her; but it was men like him, men with iron will and hearts strong enough not to break from it, that shaped humans. Great men that shaped the great milestones of human history. Fujimoto Shiro - ah, surely, one day that name would leave an echo of its own in the consciousness of men. A most peculiar aspect of names, that was: while Names shaped their bearers, plain human names… were shaped by the bearer.

_Samael_

How very different it sounded, coming from a human mouth. Not a Name, but a name: a mundane word without meaning, unshackled with the potential to be whatever its speaker wished it to be. Indeed, names… were powerful things.

" _I long to see what kind of name you will shape for yourself, my lion._ " Laughter wound its way up his throat; a trickling snicker at first, and a spring flood by the time it spilled from his lips. It ricocheted off the walls, washed down the windows like heavy rain, and made the leaves of the plants in the office curl in on themselves protectively. "Won't be moved by me, you say~?" Gloved fingers swept the black pawn up from the board and dangled it above his head, like one would hold a praline before letting it fall into one's mouth. "That's the beauty of this game, Shiro." The toothy grin widened: a jagged ravine at the bottom of the maelstrom. "The pieces move themselves: all it takes is a little… motivation~"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N** The manga will probably hang me later for playing with names like this: but I will keep playing, die smiling, and regret nothing. ^w^
> 
> Beings that can speak Names? Have you thought of how strange Tamers are? Humans that can call demons to appear and make them do their bidding, I mean… holy crap. 8/ How do they do that? And why can only some humans do that?
> 
> Two conditions are set for becoming a Tamer: you need strong spirit, and something Neuhaus vaguely calls "natural talent". Those who lack spiritual strength will find that summoned demons disobey them, as we've seen with Kamiki: those who lack "natural talent" can't make demons come to them at all.
> 
> So what is this mysterious "natural talent" that somehow gives certain people a connection with demons? I substituted "natural talent" with the somewhat more tangible "strong blood" in this fic (you don't remember that, but I wrote it in ch 11 in arc 1). Going back to Kamiki, she thinks it's obvious that she can summon familiars, since she's related to a miko. Based on that, I'm chancing a guess that "natural talent" would be something you're born with, and something that can run in families: thus, "strong blood".


	28. Mind matters

"Good luck with Knight."

When your sworn enemy wishes you luck, warning bells should go off. Shiro's sole excuse for being deaf to them was that he had been listening to Kita with half an ear – if even that – while the greater part of his overworked brain was absorbed in whether or not he'd gotten it right with the stoichiometric calculations for the antidotes against spider bites.

The Aria classes involved a lot of reading, but the Doctor course was _massive._ Largely theoretical in nature, too, and after the five hour exam Shiro's head felt like a mushy, over-ripe peach. His pen hand might never recuperate, as he could hear his fingers audibly _creak_ when he flexed them, and he didn't even want to think about the biology exam he would have the day after. Might even be worth trying one of Moriyama Sayuri's experimental herb lotions to keep the stiffness from reaching all the way up to his shoulder before then.

Thankfully, next exam was purely practical.

Kita's words came back to him when the speaker asked the holder of starting tag number 8 to enter the examination area. "Good luck with Knight" - perhaps with a tiny, tiny hint of irony…?

"Don't eat sugihira mushroom, Shiro-kun!" Midori beamed, and waved with her entire arm as he left the antechamber and headed out into the arena.

"Sure thing – why ever the hell I'd do that…" He gave a short wave as he walked, and tossed his head to get the darn hair out of his eyes.

"Means 'don't do stupid things'!" he heard her say before the steel door shut behind him.

Did he really do that many stupid things...?

Knight exam looked a lot like a gladiator game in a Roman coliseum. The fancier coliseums had been designed so that the terrain could be changed to host battles in both open arena, city environment, or at sea: True Cross Academy chose an easier variety, by having Futotsuki-sensei summon a kitsune that created an illusion in the arena. To Shiro's relief, he got a city. Ryuuji had been worrying him with tales of lava pits full of salamanders; something he'd heard from his brother, but Shiro had strongly suspected that was just Ryuuji getting his chain yanked.

The exam took place in the great pit where students usually practiced close-combat against leapers, goblins and such. With a little help from the kitsune, it was now vastly larger than in reality, and refurbished with buildings, cars, benches, cables leaping from lamppost to lamppost: everything. A real, proper city.

" _I should be used to these things by now._ " He touched the wall of a pharmacy, and felt the perfectly rendered surface of rough stone under his fingers. " _But it's just so damn cool._ "

The demons they faced in exams were fairly low-level ones, decided by lottery just like the order the students entered. Shiro could vaguely sense a presence off to the right, gripped his katana tighter, and cast an eye around. Rush straight to the target and the teachers – who were sitting in the metal hub above, or around the edge of the pit – might think he was cheating somehow.

It was a bit eerie, in fact. The landscape was perfect, down to the occasional cracked pavement tile on the sidewalk; but the attention paid to every lifelike detail only highlighted the fact that the city was dead. It was an empty shell that the mind populated with phantom reflections in shop windows and imaginary movements in the corner of one's eye. It was very much like going back in time with Mephisto.

Shiro circled a few blocks deliberately, making his way towards the demon as if he was searching blindly for it. The katana felt heavy and slippery in his hands. Nerves? He rarely felt that, when his mind was focused and his heart closed. He hadn't thought he had let slip that much.

…no, he _hadn't_ let slip.

Shiro paused under the blue marquis of a grocery store. The tip of the sword was quivering in is grip. He stared mutely at it, half expecting an explanation to leap off the blade. The faint motion mirrored in the wide, dark window of the store, where a ghost reflection of him was framed in bright red kanji that advertised fresh vegetables. He sure looked funny; hair hanging down over his glasses, and those strings Mephisto had given him to hang on them, and-

-and-

Shiro stared at the sword in his hand, heartbeat rushing into his throat. Blood. He didn't know where the hell that came from, but his katana was dripping with blood, and he-

_plunged the sword into Katsu's gut his face went empty with surprise and the blade went all the way in like-_

Shiro dropped the sword with a gasp. …there was no blood on it. He stared at it for the longest time, aware only of the wheezing heaving of air in his chest.

" _What is this?_ " Memories of Deep Keep flitted before his eyes and whipped his heartbeat into thunder. " _What the hell is this? The demon isn't here, I can still feel it at least two blocks away it hasn't moved it hasn't-_ " Close your heart. Focus. Survey the situation and make logic decisions. " _Whatever it is, it's only in my head. I'll find the demon, finish the exam, and then I'll find out what's going on._ "

He bent to pick the katana up – and pulled back as if it had been a venomous snake. Blood gushed out between his fingers, _pulsed_ , heartbeat in his hands-

"What did you do, Shiro-kun…?"

He whipped around awkwardly, hiding his hands behind his back.

"Midori-chan? I- uh, is it your turn already…?"

She shook her head with a weak smile-

_a smile for the lost_

"Is your turn", she breathed with tears in her voice. "I saw it. I'm sorry, Shiro-kun."

Her words grew icicles in his lungs. She _saw_ …?

An eternity passed, from the moment she raised her sword to strike until his body reacted and moved. An eternity looped around the fear of that very moment-

_she knows what you did_

The sharp song of steel cut the air where Shiro had stood. He twisted mid-jump and landed on all-fours, barely touching ground before he leapt for his own sword. No time for thinking about blooded hands, unless he wanted the blood to be his own.

The reflection in the shop-window caught his eye for a split second: and the fingers that curled around the sword handle grew limp and powerless…

_one doesn't have to be born a demon to be like one you were never a saint to begin with_

…and bore claws.

"No…"

He hadn't felt anything, he _couldn't_ be possessed – could he? Midori should know: she always saw the core of things, but she-

Raised her sword in the reflection. He could see her stand behind him with tears streaming down her cheeks: raising the sword for a kneeling execution-

_a mercy-kill for one she couldn't save_

"No!"

This couldn't be happening, he wasn't that far gone, _he wanted to be saved dammit!_

Shiro twisted and met her blade with his own, met her crying eyes that said she was doing this _for him_. For his sake, for his own good – before he could hurt anyone again.

"Midori, I'm not a demon! It's me, it's Shiro!" He blocked heavy blows with steel that only grew heavier in his hands. She should _know_ it was him, fuck's sake, she should _smell_ that it was- Maybe _she_ was possessed? " _Then why the hell is my reflection the one with horns?_ " This didn't make sense – _nothing_ made sense…! "It's the idiot that walked in on you and Sen!"

"It was in your eyes, when you came back smelling of him: death." She advanced with silent tears running down her face, aiming to trap him against the wall. "It found a home in you, the dreamless sleep. Is not going away."

Midori… always saw the core of things…

"You hold on to it, Shiro-kun", she sobbed, adjusting her grip on the sword. "Is not going away. I'm sorry, Shiro-kun, I am."

Shiro dodged the next sweep and circled out onto the deserted street, feeling strings of control coming undone. This was insane - try as he may, he couldn't separate what was real and what wasn't. Was that the real Midori or some illusion? Was he possessed or was she? The demon wasn't even _close_ , how did something like this...!?

"It's a mistake!" The sword was lead in his hands, and he had to remember what Gokuro-sensei had taught him about using his muscles without damaging them. "Look, the demon must've done something with us! Whatever you think you're doing, stop it!"

Those words…

His voice rang muffled in his ears, as if coming from far away – as if the atmosphere was different, as it had been when-

"Shut your mouth." It was Agari's voice that hissed from Midori's lips – or was it only in his mind?

_cut her throat and killed her watched her fall down dead like a doll_

…overlapping his vision… like multiple exposure in a photography… he was there again, in the sealed chamber with the hourglass…

_she will kill you unless you kill her_

Agari raised her sword to strike, and he thrust forward on reflex-

-Midori's bright golden eyes wide with horror-

_it found a home in you and you will kill again you will kill everyone you love_

Shiro tweaked his blade aside with a terrified gasp - _what the hell was he doing!? -_ and Midori's sank through the flesh in his arm like a spoon through jelly.

"Haahngh…!" That was real, that was _fucking_ real! " _Don't drop the blade, whatever the hell you do, don't drop the blade!_ " It was so heavy, and it hurt so bad, but he had to hold it up to block. " _Allow the muscle fibres to contract smoothly, not in a jerky manner, and not for too extended periods of time_ ", Gokuro-sensei's words flashed through his mind, and he clumsily prevented Midori – Agari? Midori? – from skewering his liver.

_she will kill you..._

Shiro's heart rushed adrenaline through him at mad velocities, drowned the pain in his arm and beat sound out of his ears – everything happened so suddenly… and his mind was slowly cornered into detachment, considering what it might have to do to survive.

_...unless you kill her_

It crawled out into his tissues, crept under his skin and choked reason with thick: the fear. Buzzing toxic webs of fear - fear of what was happening, fear of himself, fear of-

" _I don't understand what's real and what's-_ "

…multiple… exposure…?

In the shop window, behind Midori… there was one more shape moving in her reflection.

" _It all started when I looked at the reflection._ "

Hyperventilating through clenched teeth, Shiro backed away from Midori and raised his sword with both arms fully extended: not towards her, but towards himself. He pointed the tip right between his eyes. And thrust.

A thin squeal, and the pain was gone. Midori was gone, the wound in his arm was gone, and a small breath of miasma swished away from his face, headed in the direction of the demon's presence.

Shiro relaxed his tense muscles smoothly and let the katana slip out of his grip onto the dusty asphalt. He hunched forward, resting his hands on his knees for support.

"Reflecting surfaces", he breathed, taking a moment to let his heart and nerves settle down. It fell off him like snow from a pine in winter wind: big, heavy sheets of glistening cold fear, releasing their grip on his mind. " _It was just illusion... just illusion... thank god..._ "

He knew what he was fighting, finally: an ikelos. A demon that preyed on one's darkest fears and gave them form. They usually tapped into sleeping minds, since they were more susceptible to that kind of influence, but some of the stronger ones – the shapeshifters – could possess objects. Liquids, to be more precise. No wonder he hadn't made the connection between the reflection and shapeshifters! They possessed liquids: glass was liquid, just so extremely viscous that most thought of it as a solid.

…one thing had not been an illusion created by the ikelos. The sword was much lighter when Shiro picked it up again, but as he jogged towards the demon's presence it grew heavier: slowly but steadily heavier. Good luck with Knight?

" _Good luck with Knight when you've got a_ baryon _possessing the sword!_ "

Stupid bloody thing, he should've realised…! But he had been too focused on the presence of the demon ahead to notice the weak, inert one he had literally in his hand.

Shiro was about to exorcise it, but thought better of it. No, he'd keep the sword like this and show the teachers after exams: Kita would hang, he'd make damn sure of that.

It was obvious, when he peeked around the corner of a barbershop and saw it: a visible, oozing veil of miasma hovering over the windshield of a parked car, and little stolons trotting about on stilty legs around it.

" _How was that chant again…?_ " Shiro leaned his head back against the brick wall and closed his eyes for a moment. There was a really handy chant that made you immune to the magic of shapeshifters, but that required barberry, and if he could make barberry grow out of his ass then he would have done that already. " _So improvise._ " He didn't need the effect to last long, only as long as it took to whack that windshield to pieces. The chant itself might just be enough. " _Kakariko kokekokko, no, that ain't right… Kokuriko kikkiree._ " The best thing about studying all classes at once: you always had something to fall back on. Shiro opened his eyes, put one index finger to his forehead, and spoke the words aloud. " _That big, huh…?_ " He could see it now. It rose out of the windshield like a huge, twisted jack-in-the-box of liquid darkness. It reminded him of what plastic looked like when it was melting and blackening at the same time.

Shiro gripped the katana with both hands and drew a deep breath.

" _Right…_ "

Windshields are made to be sturdy. If hit, they can crack and bend, but they aren't likely to shatter: unless you have a sword weighted by a baryon, and inhuman strength to swing it around with.

* * *

The arena exit opened to the smooth hum of automatic machinery as the speakers crackled and told the holder of tag number 9 to prepare for Knight examination. Shiro dragged himself through the wide doorway, stained black by miasma residue… and felt the weight evaporate from the sword. The presence of a weak demon flitted briefly against his senses, and disappeared. Did he pass a barrier? A glance at the base of the steel doorframe revealed a small cup of salt on each side, along with wards: safeguards against demons leaving the examination area. Of course.

" _Aren't you a clever little fucker?_ "

Which by no means meant Kita would get away with this.

* * *

The only good thing with exams was that regular classes were on hold until they were over: two exams a day, and the rest of the day off.

That's not to say it wasn't taxing. Most students had twelve or so exams to take, if they had cram school on the side: Shiro had stopped counting his after sixteen, and decided that looking further than three days ahead in the calendar was probably very detrimental to his health.

The day he set his eyes on was the one when he would go to the crafts market with his friends.

"Gotta tame this shrub before that", he muttered at his reflection in the bathroom mirror as he eyed his next opponent: his hair. It was so long he should be able to make a tiny ponytail in the neck, and he could imagine Kasumi's delight in doing precisely that. " _I'll just cut it today, save the bleaching for tomorrow._ " And add the final touches of cutting as he did: it was always a bother, getting it right at the back of his head with just a handheld mirror and a pair of scissors.

" _What the…?_ "

When Shiro was done with the scissors, he stared at his reflection. Getting an even cut in dead angles was the least of his worries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:**
> 
> **Sugihira mushroom** is called Angel Wing in English, which is a fitting name both visually and in terms of what it does to you if you eat it.
> 
>  **Ikelos** means "likeness" in Greek, and is one of the names of Phobetor, the embodiment of nightmares.
> 
>  **Kakariko kokekokko** \- I just couldn't keep myself from it. =w=' If there were a chant like that, I'd use it forever and always: "Attack, my invincible chickens!" ÒwÓ (good thing Dimwit can't become an exorcist) I don't know how many times I got myself killed in Kakariko Village just 'cause I couldn't stop bothering the chickens... x'D


	29. Playing with fire

Not bothering with knocking, Shiro pushed the white double doors open and trotted into Mephisto's office. It looked the same as usual: traditional Japanese construction coupled with posh, old European furniture that looked soft but was brick-hard to sit on. And Mephisto sat behind his desk, as usual.

The world didn't care if he was King of Time or plotted gruesome vengeance against an Italian Cardinal. The world minded its own business and let everyone else – demon and human alike – mind theirs. The world is incredibly nonchalant in that sense.

Mephisto's desk had suffered an influx of even more misplaced children's toys since Hello Kitty had made its real break-through. Shiro had seen a headband with the weird little cat when he went to buy food just a few days ago, and had spared a moment to wonder if Mephisto would wear it if he gave it to him.

"Evening, Cuddlebun." The demon looked up from what seemed to be the summaries of the exams so far. "Imprint acting up again, I think."

"Imprint, you say?" There went the lighter: he really should put it in a different pocket. "And here I thought you actually missed me."

Purely out of instinct, Shiro ducked – and a shriek sailed past his head as the wastebasket panda missed its target, hit the backrest of an armchair at an awkward angle, and landed gracelessly on the floor.

"No, but I did miss this little guy." He sat down on his haunches by the wailing, rolling familiar. "Hello, you little pest." It wailed higher, and wiggled back and forth. "You brought this on yourself, you know." The wails became more miserable, and the dark patches around its eyes changed shape, as of eyebrows tilting to show dejection. "Nope, not gonna cut it. My kidneys still don't forgive you." He bopped the panda's button nose with a finger, and smiled as it gurgled and snapped at him. "I'm only helping you 'cause I can't stand your whining, you hear me?" He lifted the wastebasket back up on its, uh, bottom end – and scowled. There was something… else… "Right, right: I see", he sighed, and fished around his pocket for the starting tag from Knight exam. "Look, jumping on people is how you get treats from _him_ ", he stabbed a thumb in Mephisto's direction. "With me it's fine to just… come rubbing up against my leg, or something. Eat this and be quiet."

Shiro had deliberately ignored Mephisto in favour of the panda, and was rather surprised – disappointed, even – that he didn't get any sulky remark for it. But he hadn't seen the very attentive, very interested looks Mephisto had been giving him while being ignored: and when he did turn to face the principal, those looks were gone as if they had never been there.

"When do I get treats for being a good demon?" He leaned back in his high-backed chair and cocked his head to the side with a sweet smile.

"I can toss trash at you too, if you like." Shiro stood and stretched, feeling his muscles remind him of the day's exams. "Anyways, weird stuff's been happening. I cut my hair today-"

"With marginal improvement."

Somewhere, in a parallel dimension, Mephisto was not a headmaster but a hairdresser.

"Compliment duly noted", he smiled with mock politeness. "And do you notice anything besides that?"

"You missed a bit, just above your right ear."

Strike the previous: he was a hairdresser in this dimension, albeit not a practicing one.

"I'll fix that later. Anything _else_ …?" He strolled up to the desk to give him a better look.

"Looks about the same to me."

"Exactly." Shiro ran a hand through his prickly hair. "There should be a black growth at least two centimetres long, but there's nothing: it's white down to the roots. And I haven't bleached it in a month."

There's nothing more effective than to kindle a demon's curiosity. Mephisto beckoned him over, rose, and proceeded to tug off his gloves. Damn, he was tall… Well, Shiro was aware of that by now, of course: aware of it, but acutely reminded of just _how_ tall he was when he stood right in front of Mephisto and was a whole head shorter.

"Is there anything else different with it, save the colour?" The principal combed through his hair and ground hairs together between his fingers. It produced a rustling, sand-like sound.

"It's thicker, I think. And stiffer." The feeling of claws against his scalp made Shiro tense. But the touch was light, and the exploring fingers gentle - and when he stole a glance up at the demon's face… " _He's being… cautious…?_ " Oh, but he had to be. If you can snap iron beams as thick as a man's arm, you have to be very cautious around something as frail as humans. "I'm thinking that might be the reason you couldn't fix it for Hyakki Yagyou", he added, talking to Mephisto's cravat and catching a faint trace of something that might have been perfume. " _Oh man you really are a princess._ "

"Plausible…" Fingers moved to Shiro's chin, and the tip of the thumb's nail fleetingly touched his lip as Mephisto tilted his face upwards.

This… was starting to feel awkward.

"Your eyebrows; were they white before?"

"Um…" He preferred staring into the god-awful cravat, he decided. It was a lot harder to speak with those sharp green eyes scrutinising him so close: so close you could distinguish a faint corona of blue around the reptile pupils. "I'm not sure. I used to bleach them, but it was bothersome in the long run, so I only did it every other time I bleached the hair or so. I don't remember if I did them last time or not. But either way", he detached himself from Mephisto's fingers, "they shouldn't be white anymore."

"And yet, they are." The demon tilted his head to the side and let his eyes roam across Shiro's face once more. "What of your beard?"

"What beard? Does twelve hairs count as a beard?" he huffed, running a hand over the chin that Would Not Grow A Proper Beard no matter how much encouragement it got. "But it's been even less visible than before, now that I think about it… Probably white, too." For a split second, he thought Mephisto was going to keep inquiring about the state of his hair in various places. _That_ would've been awkward.

"I don't think the imprint did this", he mused, stroking his goatee in thought. "Indirectly, perhaps. Three things are known that can cause this kind of change in the body, and those are malnourishment, stress, and shock." He counted them on his hand, thumb to middle finger. "Your stress level can be presumed to have been rather high, with studying for five Meisters. And then we have the incident in Deep Keep." He tugged the gloves back on as he spoke, and the claws vanished into space that didn't exist outside them. "A human body isn't meant for that kind of power. That you survived is nothing short of a miracle, but had you survived without a single mark to show for it I would've doubted you were human at all." Once clad again, his hands came to rest on his hips. "A shock of that magnitude could definitely be traumatic enough to make your hair turn white prematurely."

"So it's always gonna be like this…?" One step closer to the old lady look Kasumi had predicted for him: wonderful.

"Yes – unless you dye it."

"Why would I?" Shiro took a step back, for personal space. "Saves me the trouble of bleaching it once a month." A sudden thought hit him, and he burst out laughing – to Mephisto's bewilderment. "Fufufufu well~ I figured you'd give me grey hairs one day", he said, stroking his chin and pulling a crooked grin to go with the gesture. "Just didn't think it would be this soon."

"Such an unjust accusation: leave you to your own devices and you wouldn't live long enough to grow grey hairs at all", he countered dryly, taking a step forward to maintain the distance between them.

"Good thing I have a guardian angel to look out for me, then." Shiro took another step back, and crossed his arms with a cheeky look. "What would your fellow demons say of that title?"

"I'm sure they would find it highly amusing", he snickered, advancing a step into Shiro's private sphere. "And the Roman Curia would vomit blood. I always did wonder why you bleach your hair, though. Initially, I thought it was because of your name."

Shiro simply stared.

"Seriously? What kind of idiot would dye his hair to fit his name?" He stepped backwards again: more pointedly this time. "Other guys can worry about straight ties and creased trousers. Girls notice that kind of stuff up close: a guy with white hair they're gonna spot a mile away in any crowd."

Mephisto looked like he hadn't considered that aspect, but that he did see the point in it: and he took another step forward.

"…is this some new weird game of yours? Mirroring my movements like that?"

"There's an interesting expression passing over your features when I do – too brief to be properly studied, but nonetheless noticeable." Such an annoying smile, and even more annoying to have it dropped on your head from high above. "Does my proximity make you _edgy_ , Shiro-pon~?"

Shiro was about to threaten his curl – he _had_ promised to tug it if it was within range, and it definitely was – but was suddenly overcome with a much… _better…_ idea.

…actually, it wasn't better. It was stupid, and risky, and he couldn't understand why he would even come up with such a-

Screw it: it would be fun.

"Don't know if 'edgy' is the right thing to call it…" he returned with a sassy drawl, and stroked his fingers down the tress of purple hair that he had once clipped with a katana. "What would you suggest, prince of words and wit?"

"Playing along, all of a sudden?" Mephisto made no move in response to the advance: only looked very, very curious of what would come next. "To what end, I wonder~?" _Know your enemy, and you can lead him wherever you like_.

"Wanna find out…?" Shiro closed the distance between them, every nerve in his body curled into a tight, quivering knot. " _I might not be your type, but I know how my enemy works._ " And there's nothing more effective than to kindle a demon's curiosity: "Then play the game~"

"I could lose my job for that." Calm voice, calm face - and the hungry glow of lust seared the edges of them both.

"Only if they find out", he pointed out with a sly smile. "There's many things you've done that the Order doesn't know of, right? Something minor like this…" He trailed a finger down Mephisto's silk cravat, and hooked it into the buttoning of the tailcoat with a suggestive tug. "This… what's the word for it…?"

"I think you'll have to elaborate a bit on what you mean: it's difficult, at present, to find the proper word without more… solid _…_ material _._ " A hand found the small of Shiro's back, and pushed his hips forwards to rest against Mephisto's long legs.

Oh, he was an idiot, playing with fire like this – but the _thrill_ …!

" _I'd make a fine demon_ ", he thought, recognising the tantalising tug of instincts that weren't his: instincts that took pleasure in leading and luring and manipulating. "I'm bound to agree, your highness", Shiro followed on, pitching his voice and expression to perfection. "It's difficult to find the right words when distracted. Nothing against your taste in clothes…" he let a wicked leer onto his lips, "…but I think I'd find them less distractive if they weren't on you. Einsu…" He undid the top button of the tailcoat. "Zuwei~?" Traced the second button suggestively with his fingertip…

"Keep those hands in check, Shiro", he purred in a way that spoke the opposite of his words, "or I might have to show you entirely different ways to do a tie~" With the expertise of a stage magician, Mephisto yanked the garment from his neck in one fluid motion.

"Durei~" Last button undone: Shiro ran his hands slowly up the burgundy shirt that covered the demon's skeletal chest, leaning in as if to kiss him, and peeled the tailcoat from his shoulders as he did. " _This-had-better-work-or-I'm-in-real-deep-shit._ " Mephisto followed the motion to let it slide off his arms… " _I win._ " … and was left wide-open when Shiro assaulted his midriff.

"Nh-what are-iheheheheihihihihiii!" Reflex bent his thin body to counter the tickling, and he was effectively halted by the tailcoat that tied his arms behind his back. "Nheh-ah-ahhahahaa you little devi-nyahahahahahaaa st-stop thi-hihihihihii!"

"No can do, I fear!" Shiro's cheeks cramped, as did every other muscle in his body, as he struggled to prevent Mephisto from throwing him off. "I simply _can't_ keep my hands off such an _exceptionally_ good-looking demon!"

"You-hihiihii-you'llpayforthisyou-fuahahaahahahaha -ah-ah- _awfu_ -ahahahahaha!" He managed to wrap his arms protectively around his abdomen, and prompted Shiro to find new ways of keeping his advantage. "Ow! Ow ow ow stop iiiit!"

"Such an un-manly shriek, your highness~" Shiro didn't let go of the hair curl until Mephisto tried to shrug his tailcoat back on and free his arms, and in the process left himself open again. "Still got trouble finding the proper words, have you?" he grinned from ear to ear as the demon tottered on his feet and virtually _cried_ from laughter. "I think what you're looking for might be 'uncivilised, insolent, double-crossing mo-'"

Shiro didn't hear the gleeful squeak over Mephisto's laughter: and by the time he did, it was too late to duck.

The panda hit him square between the shoulders. Lovely. He fell headfirst into Mephisto, who was too uncoordinated to stand properly anyway: and, in all, it was no great surprise that they ended up on the floor. With the panda bouncing happily around them, waiting for its reward.

" _Like bloody shoujo manga_ ", Shiro groaned inwardly. He'd managed to halt his fall before he landed flat on Mephisto; although, in terms of suggestive positions, their current one wasn't much better. "Your panda is never getting treats from me again", he informed the face below his.

"You should be more concerned with what treats you will bribe _me_ with, if I'm ever to forgive you for this."

He did look rather affronted, Shiro decided, as he watched the laughter slowly abate from the demon's features.

"Well~ you wanted know to what end I was playing along, so…" He shrugged as best he could with his wrists caught in iron grips at each side of Mephisto's shoulders. "I guess the morale of this is 'curiosity killed the cat'?"

Or soaked it in vinegar, if he read the demon's face right. A little more scowling and the tips of his eyebrows would actually touch the base of his nose. There was also an unmistakable, rhythmic twitching in his curl: in all, he looked lovely. Perfectly pissed and perfectly lovely. It would take a generous bribe to wipe that look from his face, and even then it wouldn't-

"You're gonna give me hell for this no matter what I bribe you with, aren't you?" Shiro inquired matter-of-factly. _You think?_ said the one quirked eyebrow that answered him.

"In that case, I'll just wait for payback to bite me", he said, no longer able to hold back a self-satisfied grin. Better savour the moment while it lasted: payback would bite hard. "'Cause no matter what your face says, you do enjoy a good game of wit." No reply, save an even more sour look. " _Sulk all you like, but you're not denying that I'm right._ " Shiro wiggled fingers that were starting to feel rather numb from lack of blood. "Now, would you mind letting me go, so you can plot your gloriously sweet revenge in private…?"

Mephisto's look changed from one of irritation to one of saccharine malice and poisoned promises.

"Sweet it will be, rest assured of that~"

With those words, he let go and snapped his fingers. What came right after was a loud, wet splash.

" _Should've guessed as much._ "

The water wasn't deep, but it was _cold_ – and the bottom was covered with rocks, which his knees had hit with jarring force. Shiro stumbled up on his feet with colourful curses and tried to determine where he was. There was nothing but trees around – wonderful, Mephisto had dumped him in the middle of nowhe- Ah, no, not in the middle of nowhere. He recognised that outcropping rock, and the partly hidden ward that hung under it: he had landed in the well Midori used for bathing.

Shiro sighed, then chuckled to himself as he fished his tie out of the water.

"Yeah, I'm an idiot…" Mephisto could have snapped his bones like twigs in their tussle, even if he didn't mean to. Playing with fire like that… " _I wouldn't get old enough grow grey hairs, you're damn right about that._ "

Was it worth it?

Shiro got his sopping wet feet up on land, hoping to leave that question behind. Playing with fire was a dangerously addictive bad habit, and one bad habit leads to another. Playing with fire was fun: playing with hellfire… was starting to become his new addiction.

Some people aren't programmed for survival: Shiro was willing to admit he was one of them. He was reckless – he certainly was – but he wasn't stupid. He kept a respectful distance to the grand games Mephisto played, but the smaller ones they played on their private two-man board were simply too much of a temptation to pass up. Reckless, but not stupid: at least he hoped s-

"Right…" Shiro groaned at the deepening shadows. A cigarette hung from his lips, and his hand was in an empty trouser pocket. " _Not gonna see that lighter ever again. And it was such a good one..._ " Cigarette lolling between his lips, and shoes squishing out water with every step, he set a moderate pace through the forest towards the distant noises of the night market. " _I'm not taking it back, if he gives it to me: he'd probably tamper with it to make it blow up in my face or something._ "

Oh, come now: Mephisto's revenge would be more spectacular than that! Anything less than getting his hair dyed pink and being paraded through True Cross Town naked would be a disappointment. Curiosity killed the cat, indeed, and it's true not only for demons: a curdling tension tickled Shiro's gut when he tried to guess what Mephisto would do. Heavens knew that particular demon was a creative bastard… and even more so when his grandiose ego had taken such a fine bruising.

" _…_ worth it", he grinned to himself, thinking back on Mephisto's acerbic glares: an addiction difficult to resist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:**
> 
>  
> 
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> 
>  **White overnight?** You can't find any evidence that says shock/trauma could make hair white "overnight", but I have seen something to that effect happen to my adoptive uncle (people who don't have kids can adopt kids, so I don't see why people who don't have uncles couldn't adopt an uncle). He went from sandy blonde to white in a week or so, after falling and breaking a few ribs – and since this is fiction, I'll take my chances and stretch the concept. ^_^'
> 
> **Idiots…** What kind of idiot would dye his hair to fit his name? An idiot like Kinzo Shima…? xD Oh, but I like that guy. So stupid, random, and loveable. (kin = gold) So, although we see a Shiro with grey hair in the anime, I will run with it as white. It fits his name, as a play on words: I reckon pretty much all of you are aware that there's a difference between shirō (lion son) and shiro (white). It's a confirmed thing that Kato did model Shiro's character after a white lion in Japanese legend, however, so I think I'm not entirely wrong in guessing that his name is wordplay.


	30. Brewing storm

Shiro had felt the shirt glue to his back during the maths exam. The pen had been slippery in his fingers, and fine creeks of sweat had tickled his temples and stained the paper in the stifling summer heat: but oh how grateful he had been for having maths!

Being stiff and sore from exercise was nothing new to him – Gokuro-sensei had seen to that, as P.E. had moved into more combat-oriented fields – but this was on a whole different level. Yes, he could make his muscles perform beyond their limits; but like employees forced to work overtime, they made sure he felt their displeasure afterwards. It ached. It _creaked_. It felt like his joints were ball bearings full of gravel and his muscles sprinkled with splintered glass. But it also meant his body was adapting to the increased strain, and growing stronger.

Shiro didn't take one more step than necessary outside, clinging to the shade the buildings gave and-

"Smoking on Academy premises is still not permitted, Fujimoto-kun." Well well, if it wasn't the same hot prefect that had spotted him on the first day of this school year? "That's your third warning: you're going to the principal's office."

Shiro didn't bother checking his grin. He rocked back on his heels, hands in his pockets and the glowing tip of the cigarette lolling up and down between his teeth like a dog's tail. Going to the principal's office, eh?

"It's a week and a half 'til graduation: do you really think he'll bother kicking up a fuss about this in that time?"

"He will, if it's the school's most notorious pest", she snapped confidently – hmm~ he did like a girl with bite.

"The school's most gifted prodigy", Shiro corrected, earning a scornful snort from the prefect. "Tell you what – exam results are announced before graduation, yeah? My name will be in the top ten." And she would believe that when carrots grew out of her ears. "If it's not, you can report me to Me- Faust. And for good measure, since you look so cute when you're glowering at me, I'll even confess a few things I've done that haven't been put on record." She was doubtful, but listening. Excellent. "That I promise", he added, taking the cigarette butt from his lips. "But  _if_ I'm in the top five…" He dropped the smoke and ground it out under his shoe, leaning forward with his best rascal-smile as he did. "…you give me a kiss."

"You're shameless!"

"You're pretty."

She was. Blushing and glaring at the same time – such a cute little thing~ And she did, in the end, accept the bet.

* * *

Come afternoon, Shiro had meticulously eliminated all wonky hair-tufts from his cut, shaved off what little facial hair he had, and silently cursed the universe for the red zit that had sprouted above his eyebrow. That last thing aside, he looked fresh and ready for going to the crafts market with his friends; and with certain friends' cute sisters.

The universe doesn't normally take offense when humans across the globe blame it for various misfortunes; sometimes, however, it does. When Shiro left the dorm building, the universe had knitted its eyebrows into a sinister black palisade of thunderclouds and glared balefully at him, and the swallows skirted low in the billowing air over the Academy's sun-heated rooftops. The universe got its message through rather clearly, and he doubled back and fetched a free-to-use umbrella from the holder in the dorm hall.

Weather didn't bother Shiro. When other children at the orphanage had sat indoors, reading or playing board games in the blinking light of faltering light bulbs, eleven year-old Shiro Fujimoto slunk out the window – the doors were always locked when there was no one to supervise outdoor activities, he recalled – to stand in the hammering rain and feel the force of nature churn his blood. The iron-fenced yard was different when storm came: even dull, confining orphanage grounds could gain a vicious beauty, when nature crushed the manmade illusion that it could be controlled. Light drops drew frothing breaths of steam from the sun-warmed pavement; heavy drops whipped the ground into a hissing cauldron, and the sky lowered itself down onto the rooftops, so close he could almost touch it…

" _And the thunder…_ " A nostalgic smile ghosted his lips.

Some children curl up under their bedcovers when thunder rolls across the sky; others want to stand in the midst of it and feel the booming waves streak their skin with goose-bumps. Then rain had washed down the collar of his shirt and licked it stuck against his skin, and he'd laughed - glowing, like the fog-wrapped cracks of lightning above…

The orphanage staff soon learnt where to look when he went missing. It was always Shiho-sama who came running out under a yellow umbrella, grabbed his arm and marched him back in. She was left-handed; his cheekbone remembered, from all the times her wedding ring had struck when she slapped him for getting soaking wet in the rain. Or other inappropriate things he did: there were quite a few of those, after all.

Weather wasn't the problem, when he trotted down the walkway to pick up Sen and Midori at their dorm. There were other creatures than unruly little boys that stirred when the sun was swallowed by dark skies, and his leisurely day at the marked promised to be not as leisurely as he'd hoped.

* * *

Sen had embarked on an ambitious project to teach her girlfriend how to properly style hair, and had lent her long, raven black curtain to experimentation. That had been all and well, if Midori hadn't set out to do what seemed to be all hairstyles at once. More than one student they passed by looked the other way to hide their smiles, but Sen didn't seem to care at all; of course. She was far away from other humans. Far away from strong emotion that could tip the balance between her and her goblin familiar.

" _And she's lived like this for years…?_ " Shiro didn't know what to think of it. Was it tragic? Was it proof that it was possible to live half-alive? Should he grieve for her, or should he consider her an inspiration…?

"Do you think it will like it there?"

Shiro had just enough time to catch sight of the lizard's tail before it disappeared into the mess that was Sen's hair.

"I think it's a lovely home for a lizard", he chuckled with a smile.

Sen responded with one of her distant smiles, and Shiro hoped to high heavens that his own hadn't looked like that. Her smile had always made his skin crawl, but he'd never before been able to pinpoint why. It was the smile of one who knows what a smile looks like, but hasn't smiled a true, heartfelt smile in years.

Midori, who was the expert provider of lizards, cast one glance at him, one glance at Sen's hair, and returned her golden eyes to him with her eyebrows crinkled together and lips pursed in an offended pout.

"What? I'm not saying anything mean about it", he pointed out with a shallow grin as they strolled down the stairs from the academy campus.

"Mouth is quiet, but face is loud."

Midori preferred walking on the low stone banister, jumping over every knob and pouncing on the small lizards that skittered into cracks and joints. She didn't bother at all that the saffron-yellow yukata she wore wasn't intended for that kind of movement – but, on the other hand, it didn't bother Shiro either. She had such nice legs…

"Sorry, I didn't catch that", he said, snapping out of his daydreams with a sheepish look.

"Your face speaks very loud, little ero-kun", she tittered like raindrops on leaf gold. "So loud you hear nothing else, hm~? I said I think Sen looks cute in that."

"I think she looks like a fashionable broomstick in that."

To that, Midori slapped him over the head and shot him a reproachful glare, marred only by the laughter that tugged the corners of her lips.

" _You_  were raised in woods, not me."

"You will never get a girl by being honest, Shiro-kun", said Sen with that smile that made him cringe inside.

"Too bad, he likes girls so much~" When the stairs left them on the road to Mepphy Land, Midori jumped down next to them. "Shouldn't Shiro have a girl for market day, hm~?" she chirped, and telepathically conveyed a devious plan to Sen through a single, sparkling glance. "Or maybe two…?"

"Two is a good number", Sen agreed, and hooked her arm into Shiro's. "Two is for balance in duality."

"And two is amount of arms", Midori fell in, swiftly yanked the umbrella out of his grip and replaced it with her arm.

"Number of arms", Sen corrected at his other side.

"Number and amount; is both not for how many there are of things?"

"Just what are you two up to…?" Shiro definitely didn't mind strolling through town with one girl on each arm, but when said girls were plotting together any man would do well to be wary.

"We make sure you have a girl to go to the market with", said the little fashionable broomstick with a dead smile and eyes that twinkled in a way oddly reminiscent of Mephisto's.

"I'm quite sure I would've managed that myself", he replied with raised eyebrows.

"No you wouldn't~"

"Not when you have two already."

For then all  _available_ girls would think he-

"That isn't fair", he complained.

"But you enjoy it, ero-kun~"

"I can at least enjoy people's jealous glares", he observed, craning his neck to see the throng that milled at the brightly coloured entrance to Mepphy Land. "Speaking of that: would you care to ensure that I have a girl or two to celebrate my graduation? This old man's on his final school year, after all."

Sadly, no. Sen's father celebrated his sixtieth anniversary, and both she and Midori would attend. Getting to and from the Futotsuki village was a bothersome business: they had to leave immediately after their last exam to arrive on time, and they had planned to remain there over summer.

 


	31. Catching up

The market completely ignored the impending downpour. Between the usual booths had cropped up a myriad of yatai and stands erected by artisans, and Shiro had a slight suspicion Mephisto might have had something to do with the flag posts that had magically appeared to frame the market corridors in cherry pink. An inviting smell of takoyaki, yakisoba and other fried foods hung in the air, weaving between excited children's shouts and adults discussing if it would be the  _Hanshin Tigers_  battling  _Hankyu Braves_  for the championship title this year, or if it would be  _Yomiuri Giants_. Shizuku, Kasumi, and Ryuuji all took part in the market, but had agreed to meet up with them for an afternoon snack and a stroll through the transformed amusement park. However, when they converged at the temporarily closed Go To Hell rollercoaster, only the Honda siblings were there.

Shizuku wore his pilgrim's clothing, which somehow made him look older, and beside the usual roll of tools he carried a cloth-bag of assorted wood pieces over one shoulder. Kasumi had opted for a pale yellow, criminally tight-fitted yukata that left little to imagination, and she had tied her hair into a traditional bun as opposed to her usual bushy tuft.

And despite Shiro's best efforts, he couldn't keep the sight of her from making his heart bubble like a teakettle in his chest.

"Well, well – seems like ye dressed up fer nothing, Kas-hrrk…!"

"I've been getting' more commissions than 'e has, an' he's a li'l cranky 'bout it", Kasumi explained blithely, while her brother choked after having had his Adam's apple rapped with her fan. "Sellin' goods is easier if ye put goods on display, if ye know what I mean", she winked.

"Oh, I believe you", Shiro grinned, making now secret of his admiration for her… goods.

"Izza lowly trick", Shizuku croaked, rubbing his throat.

"If ya had the parts ta pull it off ye'd do it too, Shizzy~" Then she heaved a sigh. "Though it worked betta' before I got the wards tattooed, I admit." She tugged at the folds of the garment: the ward on her chest showed clearly, and the ones on her lower arms peeked shyly out of the sleeves. "Anyways, Tanuki-boy's ova' there." She pointed her folded fan in the direction of the ball pool and the children's merry-go-rounds. "What's 'is name again? I always fe'get."

"Ryuuji-san", Midori responded, which elicited an amused snort from the little pilgrim.

"Pff, 'e's no dragon, that one. I think I'll stick ta calling 'im Tanuki-boy. 'e got held up back there, talkin' ta some musicians that complimented 'is playin'. 'e said 'e'd come find us later, so I say we locate some nice grub while we wait." She cocked her head to the side and gave the trio a quizzical look. "An' I hate ta ruin the cosy threesome for ya, but that one with the glasses is a guy."

"Shush, I'd finally managed to fool them..."

* * *

Twice during their walk did Shiro sense the unfelt touch of demons prying for a way into his heart. He tried to keep up in the fast-paced verbal exchanges, tried to put on a smile that didn't look like Sen's, but staying vigilant kept him from putting any emotion into it. He was smack in the middle of a busy market, surrounded by his best friends, and yet… he was alone.

It shouldn't be so hard. There's bad days and good days, pebbles and puddles; he might not like being stiff and cold, but he had to put their safety in the first room. It shouldn't be so hard; but when you're alone in the winter cold, and you see others laughing and talking in the warmth on the other side of the window… Then all you want is to be there with them.

Kasumi and Shizuku couldn't come to his graduation either: they were going to walk to their mother for the anniversary of their father's death.

"Your mother is not dead?" Midori asked, blissfully unhindered by the social graces the others had been brought up with. Her upbringing had gifted her with different talents, like walking arm in arm with Shiro while balancing the umbrella vertically on her forehead.

"No, not dead." Shizuku sighed with exasperation as yet another responsible mother guided her child over to the side of the road that had less pierced delinquents on it. "When I said she doesn't walk the roads anymore I meant it literally. She was crippled the day dad died, so she works at a 'andicraft centre down southwest now, roughly a week's walk from 'ere. Sorry ta say it, Shiro-san, but I think ye're gonna hav'ta rely on Tanuki-boy fe' company on ye' big day."

"We could always celebrate before we leave", Kasumi suggested, snatching the umbrella from Midori's forehead and sticking it under Shiro's chin with an impish smirk. "Shizzy tells me ye've got a free day Wednesday next week – an' since 'e's such a nice little brotha', 'e'll handle some o' my commissions if I ask 'im to."

She was… asking him out on a date? Shiro cast a glance at Shizuku to see if he'd heard it right, and was greeted with a face of  _if ye don't get_ that  _hint ye're gonna live out ye' days in celibacy_.

"Sure thing", he smiled, grappling for a heart that skipped away over flower-strewn meadows and made rather embarrassing leaps and twists. " _Did I just imagine my heart as Mephisto's wastebin panda…?_ " Well, it wasn't far from it. "Anything particular you had in mind?" Shit, that sounded suggestive. Hopefully she didn't catch that.

Oh, she did – but Kasumi just chortled merrily at him.

"Well, fer one I hear ye've been training fe' Pheles 'imself at swords. That's a skill I'd like ta see fe' me'self, so if ye're up to a sparring match or two…?"

Fighting on first date? That was a new one. On the other hand, he'd never dated a girl like Kasumi Honda.

"Fufufufu is good to test a male before mating~" Midori tittered. Shiro felt a violent blush claim his ears and make its way towards his cheeks, and tried to look at anything that wasn't Midori or Kasumi, or any other being within earshot. Talk about being raised in the woods.

"Well, I… don't think that's quite what I meant, Midori-san", Kasumi added with an awkward chuckle in her throat.

"Mh, because you don't have noses." She shot them that smile that knew everything they didn't, and Shiro wished he could disappear on the spot. "Smell doesn't lie."

"And if I light a cigarette?"

"They stink", Midori pouted.

"Midori-san, ye're the sweetest thing I know", Kasumi said, scratching Midori behind the ear. "But humans an' demons are a bit different, even if the smells say the same thing."

* * *

Sen and Midori made it a sport to stay latched onto him, and when the Honda siblings went to select nikuman Shiro was dragged along to locate pork yakisoba. It required some coordination to weave their way forward, but when Midori caught the desired scent she could probably have dragged a whole football team. Shiro narrowly swung their arm-to-arm chain out of the way for a little girl with an ice cream cone, and instead bumped into-

"…Shiro-san?"

"Yasuda-san…?"

Midori and Sen turned in unison, noticing the awkward silence that bloomed between the two graduates-to-be. Shiro hadn't spoken to Yasuda for… eight months. What do you say to a guy you haven't talked to for eight months?

"It's been a while." …yeah, that's one way to do it. "Sorry. I was an asshole last time."

"Yeah… You were." Yasuda still held his chopsticks halfway up to his mouth with yakisoba; never were good at multi-tasking, that one. His gaze darted back and forth from Shiro to the lady company, and he seemed to doubt if that choice of words was appropriate.

"How's Fuji-san?" Wonderful subject to bring up. Still, small talk was better than silence. "I haven't seen him in class for a while."

Yasuda had to run the question through his mind a second time, and lowered the chopsticks into the paper box in between.

"Fuji-san was taken out of school four months ago."

Shiro's turn to do a double take.

"What?" He'd thought Fuji was ill or something. How could he  _not_  have noticed that he _-_  Four _months_? "You mean his dad  _did_  cut the financial supply?"

"Mh", Yasuda confirmed. "Fuji-san simply stopped giving a damn, and you know what his dad was like: if the investment doesn't bring the money back in, pull the plug on it."

Yeah, he knew what Mr. Hirawara was like – except this was his  _son_ , not market shares.

" _And whose fault was it that Fuji stopped giving a damn…?_ " One more person he should say sorry to, if he ever met him again.

"I see you're more successful than ever?"

Shiro snapped back to the conversation he didn't quite follow – although, it wasn't that hard to guess what he was referring to.

"Sadly, I'm just here for decoration. This is Sakura Midori", Shiro nodded his head to the right, "this is Futotsuki Sen", he nodded his head to the left. "And it's not me they're dating, but each other." And what a look Yasuda pulled, though he tried to hide it quickly. "This guy's Tanaka Yasuda, from my class."

"Will you eat that, or can I…?" Midori was casting longing glances at Yasuda's yakisoba, and Shiro remembered they hadn't actually bought any yet, even if they were right at the yatai.

"Midori-chan is a bit special", he explained. Then he recalled Sen's spectacular hairstyle: "And Sen-chan is special in her own way, so I suppose they fit well together. Look, we're just gonna buy some food, okay? You can get started on your own meanwhile", he said, unlatching himself from his escorts to bring out his wallet. Yasuda just nodded quietly in that manner that means he politely agreed that both Shiro and his new friends were a bit special.

It was awkward, but at least it seemed to be going in the right direction. Yasuda had always been a calm guy that didn't flare up halfway through an explanation, although… If that incident with the possession was anything to go by, that calm demeanour drifted on the surface of pent up things of nastier nature. Shiro seemed to have gained a few centimetres on him, but Yasuda was still taller, and he'd lost some of the extra kilos. He looked more like a grown man than a teenager.

"So you're gonna go to the university in Tokyo?" Amazing, how much two people had to catch up on after eight months. "I never could've guessed. And  _teacher_ …?"

"Yeah", Yasuda smiled into his noodles. "I would've said 'they'll need new ones after you wore out the old', but that doesn't really apply anymore. You've been gnawing Minata-chan's heels at the top of the scoreboard the whole semester. What happened? What are you going to do after school, with those grades?"

Shiro's eyes briefly lingered on the coal tars that bobbed and danced in the steam above the yakisoba yatai. He swallowed a mouthful of beef and said what he hadn't been allowed to say eight months ago:

"I'll study to become an exorcist."

"Exorcist?" his classmate repeated, looking at him like he'd done in the old days when Shiro had suggested some unusually outrageous plan to get into the girls' changing rooms. "Did somebody finally hit you hard on the head?"

"Just a matter o' time, innit?" Kasumi replied cheerfully, hooking Shiro's umbrella into his shirt collar as she appeared out of nowhere, two paper bags of nikuman in her hand. "Been lookin' high an' low fo' ya, Bigmouth. Greetin's by the way: name's Honda Kasumi", she said, flashing a smile at Yasuda. "Now, what've ya done te ye' baby-sitters?"

"Midori-chan wanted to throw darts at balloons over there", he said, pointing his chopsticks in the right direction. "You should probably bring some sort of shield."

"I'll tell her you said that!" she said, waving over her shoulder.

Shiro smiled into his paper cup and scraped together the remaining noodles.

"So that's what it's called. 'Exorcist'."

That was a strange voice for Yasuda. Shiro looked up from his cup, food dangling halfway out of his mouth, and saw an equally strange look on his friend's face.

"I know we joked about it, but… Shiro-san, you really shouldn't do this." He was dead serious; Shiro just had no idea what he was serious about. "Especially with those grades, man: you could get in anywhere! You could go to Todai!" His voice sank cautiously. "Look, if it's the girl, Honda-chan…" Yasuda tossed a quick glance in the direction Kasumi had gone. "It's not worth it, Shiro-san. You might think it is now, but let me remind you that when you've got a girl on your mind you're about as intelligent as a pickled cucumber. She's trouble, and everyone connected to her is trouble, and you've seen enough trouble for a-"

"What did ye say about my sister?"

Shiro turned his head to see Shizuku tower behind him, black eyes fixed on Yasuda. The latter looked like he was about to heave all the food he'd just eaten back into the paper box.

"This is Yasuda-san, my classmate. He said I shouldn't hang with you, though I really can't tell why", Shiro summed up, increasingly puzzled by the situation.

"I didn't mean it", he said in a voice that seemed to be squeezed through a straw. Something was very off with him: even Shizuku noticed, and he had never even met the guy.

"Did 'e have bad pork with the yakisoba, or…?"

"No, he's been like that since Kasumi-chan passed by, and then you came and made it even worse. Oi, Yasuda-san, would you just say what's wrong instead of looking like you're about to drop down dead?"

"I… I apologise!" Yasuda appeared to simultaneously rise from the bench and bow. Deep.  _Really_ deep. "I didn't mean to offend anyone, it won't ever happen again!"

Shiro and Shizuku exchanged glances, but neither of them was any wiser.

"Come on, Yasuda-san", Shiro tried, tapping his friend's bowed back with his chopsticks. "Why are you so afraid of Shizu-san?" Yasuda mumbled some unheard reply. "Speak up, or I'll shove these up your nose."

"Because he's yakuza", he said miserably, still bowed past a ninety degree angle.

Silence.

Shizuku was the first one who put two and two together; and when he did, he doubled over deeper than Yasuda, slapping his leg and roaring with laughter.

"Oeh, dontcha geddit, Shiro-san?! Dontcha geddit?! Kasu-ahahahahahhaaaa Kas- Kasu's tattoos…! 'e thought she was with the bloody  _yakuza_ fuehehehehehehahahaaaa! An' my wards – 'e thought- 'e thought I was some  _mob thug_  hahaahhahahahaaa!"

Oh, he could see it. Through invisible prison bars he could see the mix-up, see how hilarious it was and see Yasuda's face bloom red like a signal flare; and feel the demons that waited for him to let his guard down, hovering disembodied between colourful flag posts and tin cans waiting to be knocked down with rubber balls. It was getting darker, and the storm clouds hung lower. Shiro hid his face in his hand, not to cover the laughter but to keep them from seeing how artificial it was.

Yasuda could relax, at least. He was still red as a flare, but he laughed with Shizuku and apologised again; this time for mistaking him for a yakuza thug. Kasumi, who'd come back one nikuman-bag poorer, had a good laugh at it, too.

"I'm 'is classmate", Shizuku explained with a wide grin. "In cram school, that is."

"You're still in cram school? That's how you boosted your grades like this?"

"No, what he means is that we're in exorcist cram school together. Midori and Sen-chan too."

Yasuda gave him a puzzled look.

"I thought 'exorcist' was some mob term for a hitman, but then it's…?"

"An exorcist's an exorcist: demon pest-control." …no, Yasuda wouldn't believe that. Shiro wouldn't have, either. "Remember that time you collapsed, right before Fuji-san started acting tough? It felt like falling asleep, right? Or like something was making you fall asleep? It felt like you were being swallowed up by your darkest thoughts and buried alive under your worst nightmares, and the only way to escape it was to give in and sink down into unconsciousness." Shiro paused, looking straight at Yasuda's surprised face. Yes, it had been exactly like that. "That's what it feels like when a demon possesses you", he said, not knowing what inflection to put on those words. "You didn't remember anything afterwards, because the human soul sleeps while the demon controls the body." …no, he didn't want to mention Mephisto's part in it. "I was the one who exorcised it from you."

Yasuda chewed air, like a goldfish. A very shocked goldfish with a characteristic nick in one of its front teeth.

"But… Why didn't you tell me?! And Fu- He wouldn't have blown his grades if you'd told him what happened!  _None of this_ would've happened if you'd just told us right from the beginning! What were you- Just what the hell, Shiro?!"

Yeah, there were many things that wouldn't have happened if he'd acted differently. Sometimes you make the right choice, sometimes the wrong one. That's the thing with Choice: it's only afterwards, when faced with the consequences, that you know which was which.

"I should've told you, I know. I just didn't." Back then, because he had to be discrete about going to cram school. "I'm sorry." Now, because his friends in cram school would wonder why he had had to be discrete and lie about it earlier.

Sometimes, there is no right choice.

"Sorry…?" It would've been easier if his voice hadn't been so soft. It would've been easier to be shouted at, beaten up, cursed to hell and back… but there was just Yasuda's soft voice, and brown eyes staring across the table at a stranger they once knew. "Why don't you go tell Fuji-san that?" With that, he rose, and walked away.

As if on cue, the first crack of thunder reverberated in the sky.

* * *

The rain gushed down like a waterfall, the way it does when it has been waiting all day to make that perfect entrance. It was rain that sounded like a passing freight train when it hammered on signs, roofs and asphalt, and forced people to crowd under the stands where the tarpaulin extended to form a cover. The four of them half walked, half jogged through the grey downpour; Sen and Midori under an umbrella summoned by fox magic, Shizuku under a rice hat, and Kasumi… slipped her arm into Shiro's and sheltered under his school umbrella.

"Ye've been lacking ye' usual spunk teday", she said, trying to sound casual about it. "Anything bothering ya…?"

"He's shielding his heart from demons. But he isn't used to it yet."

Shiro stared at Sen. The little broomstick merely smiled her dead smile back at him.

"I dunno if I'm followin'", Kasumi said, skipping over a large puddle that Shiro was too distracted to notice. "I knew ye're workin' ta keep demons off yer back by mind-power, but-"

"Demons possess the darkness in the human heart", Sen explained, "and the human heart opens to strong emotion."

" _Except mine seems to be a round-the-clock service desk._ "

"It takes a while to get used to", the Futotsuki continued, twirling Midori's long hair-tail between her fingers, "but if you want, you can come with us to our village over summer. We can teach you meditation techniques and how to focus better."

"That's a great offer," one he would've loved to take her up on, "but I will be working at the Academy over summer. Janitor jobs and such." The scholarship covered school fees all and well, but he needed the extra money for food and other expenses. "I would've loved to come, otherwise."

The conversation lulled to nothing but the splatter of feet on wet ground, and the rumbling of heavy rain and thunder. Nobody said aloud what they all knew: demons possess people with wicked hearts.

They were halted by a shout at the entrance gates of Mepphy Land. Turning around, they spotted… two dwarves running with a tent…?

"Hey! Hey, wait for me!" The voice was Ryuuji's, though. And the weird bulges under the rain poncho were his music instruments. "Sorry, I- haah haah I lost track of time… talking…" he panted, slightly flushed in the face but glowing with pride like a pregnant woman; pregnant with triplets at the very least. "They invited me to join their summer tour, starting next week! And we'll be playing one concert with  _Yamamoto Hōzan_!"

The change of subject was welcome. The way back to shelter was spent talking about different things they would do or hoped to do over summer. Shiro didn't say it aloud… but he had hoped he would have at least one person congratulating him on his graduation.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Yatai** is a mobile food stand.
> 
>  **Ryuji/Ryuuji** – various kanji can go into that, but ryu here retains the meaning "dragon".
> 
>  **Tattoos** are closely associated with criminality in Japan, as I'm sure you know. It just recently occurred to me what Kasumi and Shizuku must look like to ordinary Japanese: one with tattoos and one with piercings all over his face. ^_^' Yasuda joked with Shiro in the first chapter that he would do fine in the yakuza, so I thought I'd take him up on that now that they briefly talked again.
> 
>  **Yamamoto Hōzan** is something as curious as a Living National Treasure of Japan. He's an extremely talented player of shakuhachi (traditional flute) and a big name in traditional music.


	32. Unpleasant surprises

He was, he would admit, a bit nervous about Tamer exams; which was the worst exam to be nervous about. At least for the practical part, for which he was to summon a familiar and pit it against another Tamer's familiar.

There are two kinds of summoning: the instinctive, and the contract bound. Instinctive summoning was what they had done their first Tamer class, when each had been asked to say whatever words came to mind. Contract bound summoning was done using a pre-estblished agreement that pledged a demon to serve as familiar in exchange for blood, hair, dreams - something personal that the exorcist gave up as payment. Instinctive summoning required no such tribute. It was a matter of raw mind-power, and performance relied entirely on the summoner's heart and character: as Futotsuki-sensei had put it that very day, a familiar summoned through instinctive summoning mirrored the summoner.

It had come as no surprise, but nonetheless… It was a hard blow when Shiro had discovered that no shahrokh would come if he tried to summon it like before.

" _I hope Futotsuki-sensei doesn't think it's strange that my familiar has changed_ ", he thought as he stepped into the circle of wards that had been painted into the grass. This was the only exam held outdoors, on a secluded baseball court that was part of the Academy.

"Esquire Fujimoto Shiro, are you set?" Futotsuki-sensei's rich voice carried with surprising strength, even if he wasn't using a megaphone.

"Set", he confirmed.

"Junior First Class Tamer Yoshitaka Daisuke, are you set?"

"Yes", a small guy answered from the other side of the circle. "And good luck!"

Yoshitaka Daisuke…? Oh, right: the fidgety guy that had been part of the search team that went into Mephisto's labyrinth when Shiro's cram school key had been los- Had been stolen.

"Good luck!" Shiro returned, and steadied the clipboard against his hip. That was another part of the exam. In the field they would be carrying pre-drawn summoning circles, but in case of emergency they were required to be able to draw them.

"You may now begin the examination!"

"Child of Kadru, and daughter of eight kings…" Daisuke began.

"I call you forth to tell the just from the corrupted, to judge and exact judgement; to hunt the guilty down from the domes of the sky to the pits of the underworld", Shiro commanded, taking a firm hold of himself for what was to come.

First time he had summoned it, he had been forced to tear the paper almost immediately. He hadn't expected his control to falter, but then again he hadn't expected that familiar, either. He had been caught off guard, which was unsettling. Still, he had summoned it again… And again… Until he had sunk far enough into his cold detachment that he could hear that unholy bay without being seized by the paralysing fear that came with it.

"Your opponent is that naga." His voice rung hollow and slightly shaky in the arena, where all living sound had fallen silent before the smell of burnt brimstone. "Defeat it, but don't kill it."

Eyes the colour of boiling blood deigned him a glare over the demon's massive shoulder blade, and a snort that brought a gush of sparks from its nostrils. It detested him, he'd known that right from the start. He wasn't worthy to command such a creature.

" _But command I will._ " Shiro met its eyes firmly, unwaveringly… " _I've stared down the King of Time, you mutt._ " …and when it knew he wasn't going to falter, it turned its large head towards the hissing naga and stalked slowly closer, each step leaving behind the singed mark of a huge paw in the grass.

All cultures knew of them, in one form or another; all cultures feared them, for the work they carried out.

" _You didn't come to be commanded by me_ ", Shiro thought grimly, watching the red ears streak backwards against the white, bristling fur as the naga reared its head up to strike at his familiar. " _You came to exact judgement._ " The hound skipped aside, light as a feather despite its size, and bit straight through the scale panzer behind the snake's head. " _On me._ "

On the soul of a sinner. They had been called many things, but their purpose and task was the same. They were the finest hunting dogs in this world and all others, heralds of death that never slowed until they had chased their corrupted prey into the ground; so the coon annun had earned the name most people knew them by.

Hellhounds.

* * *

The practical Tamer exam was not a matter of whose familiar won and whose lost, but of what kind of familiars the students could summon, and how well they made use of their abilities. Nagas were excellent demons for offensive operations: fast, and venomous. Not very mobile, though. And not very good at endurance.

"Make it move around", he murmured, sure that his familiar would hear him but not Daisuke. "Wear it out."

The coon annun could run from the dawn of creation to judgement day, mythology had it. Whether that was true or not, they could run swift and far without tiring, and they had the strength to deal with any obstacle standing between them and their prey. The bite of a coon annun is venomous, though Shiro had little knowledge if that venom had the same effect on other demons as it had on humans.

The hellhound wasn't doing too well against the snake. Daisuke had made it curl up to minimize the target, and rather than biting it was slamming its tail at the attacker, keeping its bleeding head safe from further injury. The coon annun was too fast to get hit, but it wasn't getting close or making the naga any more tired either. Stalemate.

Shiro chewed the tip of his tongue, thinking. Stalemate didn't look good on protocol. Tamers were awarded for creativity and strategy in using their familiars, and turning the tables on a situation like this was precisely the kind of thing that gave extra points. The coon annun did have a howl that would make any living thing, human or demon, freeze in terror and be for a moment left open for assault; but he hadn't expected to face a familiar that couldn't bloody  _hear._

He knew one thing that he  _could_ do…

" _There is an important distinction to be made between_ could  _and_ should." Mephisto was right in that statement, strategist as he was… and strategy was what the situation called for. Not from him, but from his familiar. " _No winning without gambling, no gambling without risk._ " Shiro re-opened the cut in his hand for a second summon. " _And coon annun hunt in packs._ "

Often, you would hear Arias say they had the most dangerous position in a team of exorcists; directly targeted by demons, and having to remain calm and remember hundreds of memorised chants flawlessly under stress fighter pilots didn't even come close to. The Arias that also held Meisters as Tamers huffed at such words. Drawing a correct circle to summon a demon required as much memorising as chanting did, but summoning…

Summoning required you to create your own miniature gate to Gehenna through blood and will, and drag a demon through it. A Tamer used his own mind and body to bridge across two dimensions, and subdue a spirit that would rip his throat out if given half a chance: that was no fucking slacker job. The strain from summoning two strong demons made Shiro's head throb painfully, and painted the edge of his vision with frizzy shadows. He knew he could do it, he'd done it a couple of times while he practiced on his own, but… He had never kept two demons bound to himself for long.

The naga was having a hard time of it, unsuccessfully trying to keep the blurry white-and-red cannonballs at bay. The coon annun moved like two bodies sharing one mind, biting and pestering the poor creature until it ignored Daisuke's commands and mindlessly tossed itself at them in an attempt to fend for itself.

"Exam is over!" Futotsuki-sensei declared from the sidelines. "Tear your summoning circles!" All three summons disappeared in clouds of smoke, and Shiro breathed a sigh of relief. "You did well, both of you. You are free to go, and please see the nurse if you feel ill or fatigued from this exam."

Shiro allowed himself a glance at Futotsuki-sensei, and at the other teachers assembled. If they were surprised by his change of familiar, they made a good job of hiding it.

* * *

He probably passed Tamer. There was still the theoretical exam of drawing wards and summoning circles, but Shiro wasn't worried about that. It may have been that large parts of his brain had been empty and unused before, but once he'd started filling it with information he had been surprised to discover how much he could fit in there. Chants, seals, potion recipes, properties of the different demon species… He had known he was smart – fairly smart, at least – but he'd had no idea how smart he was until he'd made an effort to learn things. Until there had been things that were interesting to learn.

…speaking of smart.

Shiro had taken the long way back to the dorm area from the baseball court, to enjoy the weather, and spotted another smart dick marching straight-backed for the dorms. All alone. With all other kids on lunch break.

"Oi, Kita." If he wanted that honorific attached back to his name, he had better explain to Shiro why there had been a baryon in his sword on Knight exam. "I've been looking for you." Shiro drew a last breath on his cigarette before tossing it on the walkway and stomping it out as he went.

"And why is that?" Didn't betray a thing, the little rat. He waited, arms crossed in the shadow of one of the Academy's buildings, and looked both bored and annoyed at having to deal with this nuisance of a classmate.

"I just wanted to say thank you, for being so kind and wishing me luck on Knight exam." Now that he came into the shadow too, he could open his eyes properly. Was that a tiny hint of tension in Kita's thin shoulders…? "And tell you to quit fucking around with my business. Fine if you don't like me – I don't give a rat's ass about you, either – but I'm not childish enough to screw up somebody's exam for that."

A superior sneer crept up on Kita's lips. He couldn't have been more than a few centimetres taller than Shiro, but hell was he making those centimetres count right now.

"You flatter yourself too much, Fujimoto", he snorted amusedly. "Why would I care about your exam results?"

"I know no one who would care more", Shiro returned with silken sweetness. "It's gotta sting pretty bad to have your fancy name beaten by a nobody without exorcist connections, I'm guessing? Bad enough to put a baryon in my sword for the examination."

People get a certain look when something dawns on them. It's built into the expression, really: the bright light of a rising sun becomes for a moment physically visible in their eyes. And that was the spark that flickered in Kita's.

"What?" It irked Shiro that Kita seemed to have realised something that had completely passed him by. Irked him, and made the seed of suspicion sprout in his mind.

But the lanky Yaonaru merely reverted to his usual dickish attitude, and dismissed him with a chuckle not of the friendly kind.

"Nothing. You know nothing", he said, turning on his heel to leave.

That, was not happening.

In a split second Shiro had him by his shirt collar and shoved his back against the wall, hard enough for Kita to bump his head on the stone and grimace in pain.

"I'll repeat myself: I don't give a rat's ass about you, or about how many teeth you have to sneer at me with", he said with steel barbed softness. "I'm gonna ask nicely first, and then it's up to you whether I have to ask again. If you weren't trying to screw my exam because of competition, why did you do it?"

Kita wasn't a fighter, that he'd known from the beginning. But he wasn't meek. He was better than others; that he'd been taught since he learnt to walk, probably, and that solid conviction forbade him to let a lowlife like Shiro dent his pride.

"Let go of me, you filth", he hissed.

" _It's a bad move to think I won't go through with my threats._ " He slowly contracted the muscles in his arms, adjusting them to Kita's weight, and pushed the wide-eyed teenager up the wall until his feet dangled a good decimetre above ground. "How about we try again? Why did you sabotage my exam if it wasn't to disable competition?"

Shiro sincerely hoped that intimidation would be enough. He didn't give two shits if he actually did have to throw a punch or two in Kita's face, but his body was telling him to stop abusing it. He had summoned two familiars already, and holding Kita up by his shirt was draining what little energy he had left.

"You may be an imbecile, but I'm not", he snorted, defiant despite the trembling in the hands that clung to Shiro's arms for support. "I was shown the list of admissions to cram school before classes began last year. There was no Fujimoto Shiro on it. You were enrolled afterwards, handpicked by Sir Pheles. Why do you think he did that?"

" _I know why he did that, better than you do_ ", he thought, but let none of it show on his face.

"Oh, what a good pawn you are; not a brain cell to think with in that thick head", Kita derided, trying to pry Shiro's hands off his shirt. Shiro didn't let him. Kita knew far more than he had expected, and he wasn't going to let him off the hook before he found out just how much. "At least  _try_  to think, Shiro. Since Sir Pheles established his presence in Japan, sixty eight percent of the nation's artefacts and demonic relics have been relocated to Deep Keep: a high-security vault that can only be accessed through the use of magical keys, which are controlled by Sir Pheles. Seventy two percent of all exorcists in Japan operate under orders from the Order of the True Cross, whose Japanese branch is under the command of Sir Pheles." Kita made another attempt to pry off Shiro's hand, to no avail. "Japan is being disarmed and dismantled bit by bit, all power to combat demons centred to a demon that can deprive us of our weapon's arsenal with a snap of his fingers."

" _The Yaonaru won't store their artefact in Deep Keep, not 'cause it's guarded by the Todos but because Mephisto…_ " Pieces fell in place, beautifully so. " _He's tying all power to himself. Kita thinks that's why I-_ "

"He gathers both artefacts and exorcists", his captive continued, somehow maintaining his superior sneer despite his less than advantageous position. "And he handpicked you to become an exorcist. I don't know why, and apparently neither do you." Oh, Shiro knew. And while Kita was wrong about why Mephisto had enrolled him in cram school, the nosy little brat had made some good points. "I couldn't care less about you and your grades, but you might want to take a step back and think – if that's possible – of why Sir Pheles is so eager to add you to his collection." The haughty look grew haughtier. "Because trust me, it's not because you are his 'friend'."

There were a billion questions, milling around on Shiro's tongue like ants. A billion questions Kita wouldn't answer – many of which he  _couldn't_ answer, simply because all of them concerned the most secretive player on the game board.

And when you don't know what to ask… make people talk instead.

"That's the worst crap I've heard." Playing dumb with someone who already despised you for being dumb wasn't the most flattering thing one could do, but sometimes the results were well worth the humiliation. "And you expect me to believe that?"

Kita's face displayed an infuriating blend of annoyance, arrogance, resignation, and pity for the hopelessly stupid.

"The Yaonarus have been exorcists for as long as anyone can remember, with more knowledge of exorcism than any other family. We served the Tokugawa shoguns during the Edo period; we served Tokugawa Iesada when Sir Pheles came to Japan. He came as an emissary from the Order, offering to tie bonds with native exorcism traditions by building a school where the best from both practices would be taught." Kita made an effort to find footing on the wall behind, to alleviate his faltering grip on Shiro's hands. "And he wanted to build it where Assiah and Gehenna tangent", he spat. "That's where we are: at the thinnest nexus of the dimensional barrier. Do you think he chose this location on a whim? Do you think he came to Japan on a whim? That he enrolled you in cram school on a whim?" A cynical snicker breathed air against Shiro's whitened knuckles. "If so, you truly are an imbecile."

…and here he'd thought Kita was just a snotty shithead. The guy  _knew_ stuff. Stuff that justified every animosity he held against Mephisto – and against Shiro, who certainly must've looked like an ignorant pawn in the demon's game.

"…how can this place be the thinnest nexus? Why?"

"Why don't you ask your 'friend'?" Kita retorted.

Shiro wasn't pissed anymore. It was hard to say what he was; he had been given too much to ponder to bother being angry with Kita. He let the flustered teenager down with a jerky motion, immediately crossing his arms over his chest in an attempt to hide the fatigue tremors.

"You could have told me this before." Pff, indeed: too much to ponder to think before he spoke. Kita wouldn't have told someone who was in alliance with Mephisto; someone who was  _duped_  by Mephisto, now that was a different matter. " _And my greatest talent seems to be looking stupid…_ "

"You should consider your priorities, Fujimoto", he said curtly, straightening his collar and paying absolutely no mind to Shiro's statement. "Perhaps it would be for the best if you resigned from exorcist education?"

Without another word, without another glance, the Yaounaru turned on his heel and walked off, leaving Shiro with renewed doubts.

Mephisto liked humans, and he wanted Assiah safe – but what the hell was he planning to do, with all those artefacts buried under the thinnest part of the dimensional barrier…?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Coon annun** because my computer doesn't do Welsh. ^_^' The proper name is Cŵn Annwn, but that circumflex wouldn't sit atop a w, so I'll be transcribing it "as it sounds" for my own convenience. The coon annun are the Welsh version of the often heard-of hellhounds, and their specific variation of the legend is a big white hound with red ears. It's supernaturally strong and fast, to hunt down wretched souls for punishment, and an omen of death with bite that kills. There's plenty of similar myths in other places, so I took the liberty of mixing in a few of their traits for a more solid picture: the red eyes, the smell of burning brimstone, the burn marks from its paws, etc.
> 
>  **Kadru** in Hinduism is the mother of snakes. There's mention of a couple of snake kings there that also feature in the Japanese legends of eight great snake kings.
> 
>  **Dimensional barrier?** \- It's only been used in the anime; the weakest point in the barrier, where Gehenna and Assiah almost touch. There was no way Mephisto didn't build his Academy there on purpose. =/ He bends time and space dimensions constantly; I'm sure he could smell that spot like a bloodhound smells game.
> 
>  **Timeline recap** – I've pretended that Mephisto arrived in Japan 1854 (see Terra ch 29). That was the year Japan agreed to open up ports for foreign ships. This marked the start of international interaction with Japan after its many years of self-isolation, and also led to the downfall of the shogunate in 1868.


	33. Mind-blowing payback

" _Where is he?_ "

Shiro knew Faust Mansion was large, and it never looked the same… But as he passed stranger and stranger rooms, he was starting to think it might even  _grow_ additional spaces, too. He didn't remember a room full of grandfather clocks, though he would admit someone who rules time could have something like that: but how did you tell time from clock faces that were numbered up to 25? And a replica of the Sistine Chapel, what use did a demon have for that…?

Shiro did stop to look at that last one, though. They hadn't had the time to see the Sistine Chapel on their sojourn to Rome, but it sure was…

" _Crumbling._ " His eyes roamed the walls with their fractured plaster and fading colours. " _No matter how great mankind's achievements, it's all-_ " How had Mephisto put it…? " _Frail, fluttering instants in time._ "

Near the centre of the ceiling was a painting he recognised, elevated into his awareness on the pedestal of fame:  _the Creation of Adam_. Shiro knew nothing of art per se – if anything, he found it surprising how very different humans looked in Western art compared to Japanese tradition – but even he had to admit that that painting had "something". Something in that short, short distance between God's finger and Adam's; something that was invisible, intangible, yet held the mystery of life itself. The divine spark.

"The one you couldn't return to a dead body", he murmured to the hushing arches, gaze lingering on the two hands that had reached out for hundreds of years without ever touching.

Hundreds of years… Hundreds of years ago the laboratory in Wawel Castle's tower had been built, to house the experiments Mephisto had conducted in his attempts to bridge that narrow gap between two fingers. That narrow gap, so simple yet so far beyond the grasp of a human mind; all of life, all of creation, all that unimaginable  _power_ , compressed and crackling in those few centimetres of nothingness…

"A _nd jilt the Devil that would do the work of God._ " It was probably a good thing that Mephisto hadn't succeeded. " _You've got enough toys as it is_ ", he concluded, lowering his eyes and thoughts from the ceiling. " _Just where are you, you old goat?_ "

Shiro's pace grew more and more impatient. He should be able to dowse for Mephisto's presence; but, like the rooms of the mansion, it seemed to constantly change location. Really, he could understand Belial's frustration. Working in a place like this must be-

The moment he saw it, he knew it was the right way. He didn't bother questioning how he knew that. The corridor dug straight into the wall, and there was nothing in it save two doors at the far end. Not a single painting or piece of furniture - not even lamps. Shiro had to look at it twice before concluding that the corridor was some sort of spatial trick of Mephisto's: the pink-and-cream striped walls did run parallel with each other, but the corridor between them was impossibly narrow for those doors to stand side by side. Or gateways, rather: there were no doors in the arched frames, only darkness so deep it seemed to have mass and texture and-

" _Life_ ", he thought as he approached them, and slowed to a stop. He had half by half expected the blackness in the archways to reach out and pull him those last steps in; he could almost imagine it  _breathe_.

There were many strange and otherworldly things in Faust Mansion, but these…

These things were older than ancient - or perhaps something that wasn't touched by time no matter its shearing forces. Shiro couldn't put his finger on what made him think that; perhaps it was something he felt rather than thought. The arch to his left was assembled in sections that hid their joints in fine carving; a grand, ivory masterpiece of workmanship so expertly polished that it seemed to be liquid. The right gate was an identical twin to the first save for material. That one was grizzled, from pale white to the dark blue of storm clouds, and somewhat translucent if the light fell in right. These were just the kind of fancy things Mephisto would own – and far too solemn to be part of his collections.

" _As is the Sistine Chapel_ ", Shiro concluded with a shrug, and strode ahead through the right gate.

"The library?" How disappointing. "I must've walked a stretch halfway through True Cross Town and more, and I find you in the library."

"The  _great_  library", corrected a nit-picking voice from a heavy, deep red armchair sitting in front of the unlit hearth. "The one where books can be enjoyed without disturbance from ill-mannered apes."

True, Mephisto kept his manga and his bound books separate, and the great library… was the kind of library you own if you've been collecting works since there were written works to collect. The dry smell of papyrus, paper, and vellum rested on shelves that expanded in semi-circles out from the ornately carved hearth in the wall, like ripples on water. From floor to ceiling the shelves stretched, as if they had kept growing as trees even after the wood was hewn; a forest of pillars, branching at the top into a canopy of arches that supported the ceiling on gilded arms. If Mephisto ever auctioned out the collection he had in there, he could probably increase his fortune threefold.

Shiro crossed his arms and rested them on the back of the velvet armchair, smirking down at the demon that occupied it.

"Still mad that I played you~?"

"Not at all."

"Of course not", he grinned. "What's the occasion? I know you don't like that suit."

Mephisto never wore formal clothes in his own home, let alone that black suit he'd been forced to put on after he lost their bet.

"You tell me", he replied curtly, causing Shiro to knit his brow in confusion.

"Just so you know, I don't follow one bit."

"You came 'halfway through True Cross Town and more', you said." Mephisto closed the book with a sonorous thud, but made no move to meet Shiro's eyes. "I doubt you made that effort to ask about my attire."

" _Oooh, the princess is in a foul mood today~_ " Which was both entertaining and troublesome. "I got a few words out of Kita-san about that artefact that's causing his family so much trouble. Seems your academy is built on top of some sort of dimensional hotspot. I'm assuming you're aware of that…?"

"Of course I am."

…and that, apparently, was the extent of what he intended to say on the subject.

"Not at all mad that I played you, hm?" he teased, twirling Mephisto's hair curl around his finger and tugging it lightly. "I thought it was just pig-headed rivalry when Kita-san tried to make me flunk Knight exam, but I don't think that's all there is to it. He's after me because of my connection to you - not to the title and influence you've got, but to  _you_. And there's got to be a reason he doesn't want you to have that artefact." A reason why Mephisto was gathering so many artefacts in Deep Keep.

The curl slipped his grip when the demon unfolded himself out of the chair. With that kind of spindly body, the only way to describe it was "unfold".

"I am aware of the Yaonarus' resent, what they shelter, and why." He didn't honour Shiro with a single glance, just laid the book down on the marquetry table by the heavy divan. With a snap of his fingers he summoned an ornate carafe that hovered in the air and poured him a glass of white wine. "Neither is anything you need concern yourself with."

Being rude is easy; anybody can do that. But to be that flippantly condescending was a finer nuance of rude, and fine nuances require skill. Mephisto's whole posture radiated superiority, right in his face, and made Shiro itch to take up the fight and bite back. However, that wasn't going to get him anywhere. You have to stroke the dog along the grain: the piqued princess would keep up his diva attitude until sufficient amends were made to appease his pride. Shiro rounded the armchair with a sigh and approached, still thoroughly, expertly ignored.

"I don't suppose a 'sorry' s'gonna cut it…?"

"Word is repaid with word, action with action", he declaimed as if talking to himself, casually sipping his wine and not even  _looking_ at him.

…and against better knowledge, Shiro's health-hazardous urge to push buttons won out in the end.

"You sure you want that, knowing where 'action' got you last time~?" His voice snaked into the demon's pointed ear as he embraced him from behind and let his hands trail up the lean chest.

"A bit of a one trick pony, are you?"

Ah. King of Time, and of space: Mephisto no longer held any wine glass, and no longer had his back to him; he faced him eye to eye, and held his wrists in a secure grip. Well. At least he had his attention now.

"What's this? Does my proximity make you  _edgy_ … Sammy~?" Crap. He wasn't going to get the truth about the Yaonaru out of him, ever. Shiro could practically  _see_ the irked-o-meter rise, and see his chances to get on Mephisto's good side diminish proportionally. Some temptations just can't be resisted.

"Play coy all you like, little lion", he dismissed him. "Do you honestly expect me –  _me_  – to fall for the same ploy twice?"

No, of course not. Mephisto was one who craved the sensational, unimpressed by mediocre performance and mundane repetition. And to beat his expectations and catch that finicky demon off guard, one had to… do something he would never expect.

Shiro rose up on the balls of his feet and planted a quick kiss on his lips.

Oh yes, something he would never expect: Shiro grinned inwardly as the conceited diva face dropped and showed undiluted astonishment instead.

"If you think that fumbling attempt at a kiss is valid payment, you're sorely mistaken", Mephisto informed, quickly gathering himself up behind an uninterested façade. "And Honda-kun's sister might want to fish for a better catch."

"That's some really poor acting skills, you know", Shiro returned with a  _very_ content smirk: how often did you get to enjoy  _Mephisto_  floundering for comeback lines? Not nearly often enough.

"And a really poor kiss that will get you nowhere."

"You sure about that…?"

Demons' tongues aren't made of silver. They aren't forked, and they have no tang of sulphur and ash. But once you develop a taste for it… White wine, sweetened by candy; a lingering touch of strong tea on sharp fangs… A thrill of danger satin soft.

Once you develop a taste for it, nothing can compare.

_like a moth unto flame_

The wristlock broke, as did the kiss...

_little by little, he will burn you to ashes_

And he wouldn't care. Aeons passed when Mephisto took off his glasses, aeons that quivered in the hungry centimetres of air between their lips; a few centimetres of nothingness, crackling with forces beyond the grasp of a human mind.

_Is it worth it?_

Mephisto lingered on his tongue; spicy, sweet,  _intoxicating_ … Is it worth being burnt to cinders, to taste a spark of divine pleasure?

The silence between them left with the clink of his glasses against the table, and hunger took its place. Shiro dug his fingers into Mephisto's hair, pressed his lips against his. Worth it, worth that and much more – worth every pinprick of greedy claws that dug into his skin through the shirt. That special flavour of forbidden fruit. That  _feeling_ of Mephisto's hungry lips melting against his, of warm tongue slipping against his own.

Shiro didn't know what he was doing. Instinct doesn't explain; it just acts, no questions asked. No consequences considered. No words needed, for the body knows what it wants.

The plush divan caught their fall, and for long moments Shiro merely soaked up the sight of his prey. Prey; because there and then, he knew what lions felt when the warm, panting body of a wild beast lay pinned beneath them and  _begged_  to be eaten.

"I'm feeling a bit more inclined to tell you about the Yaonaru…" Shiro barely registered words; only a vicious desire to bury his teeth in pale white skin and tear gasping moans out of that lilting voice. "But just a bit", Mephisto purred. Sinewy hands ran slowly up the thighs that straddled his hips, making the hard bulge in Shiro's trousers ache to further  _persuade_ the demon to speak.

" _Demon._ " Somewhere in his hazy, horny mess of a brain, Reason managed to shout one word through the fog: demon. That's what Mephisto was. An expert at exploiting human desires. "What… have you done to me…?" he panted. As if knowing would help. As if there was anything that could put out the hot need pulsing through his body.

"Done~?"  _God_ , that voice; like a hot, wet tongue curling tantalizing promises around the head of his dick. "What grows in the human heart is planted by humans", Mephisto breathed raggedly, pushing himself up on his hands and slipping out of the suit jacket, like a snake shedding skin. "And nurtured by demons", he murmured a hairsbreadth from his lips; eyes of molten poison and breath of sweet wine, a hairsbreadth away, teasing, beckoning, waiting-

_the flame burns… and the moth flies to it willingly_

It was Shiro who leaned into the kiss, nurtured by silver-tongued words and the intoxicating thrills they promised. It was Shiro who pulled the tie from the demon's neck and fumbled with the silver buttons of his waistcoat, breath fluttering from the feeling of claws grazing his bare neck. He was a bundle of sensation without thought: heat, moisture, skin… and lust. Searing, throbbing lust, sweeter than sin, burning through flesh and reason.

"And when the fruit is ripe…" Mephisto's hands slid from his neck, traced the curve of his back, his firm buttocks; pulled him closer, possessively, forcing a throaty breath from Shiro's lips when his hard arousal pressed against another. "…we devour it~"

A wild beast… pinned down and begging to be eaten…

_Is it worth it, if the fox one day bites the rabbit?_

Predators' fangs left a hungry trail of hickeys on his throat, heating his blood and blurring his vision.

" _Oh, it's worth it…_ "

Shiro bit his lip around a moan as his belt-buckle emptied with a clink and gave clawed fingers access to his throbbing cock.

" _Nnnh worth it…_ "

He rocked his hips into the lovely motions of Mephisto's hand, clutched at bony shoulders and purple hair – oh yes, he was ripe… But not reaped.

Shiro wrenched him back down into the soft divan, breath hissing through a hungry leer.

" _Yes..._ "

Yes, Mephisto looked good in that suit – even better when it was undone and unbuttoned. But when his chest heaved air past the fangs in the wicked grin like that…

" _Oh yes…_ "

…when hellfire set his absinthian eyes aflame with unbridled lust…

" _A handsome devil you are._ "

…then he looked like sin incarnate. Like temptation clad in promises of flesh. The thinner his patience stretched, the more of the beast that showed behind the bars of the façade he presented to the human world, the more did Shiro long to burn.

" _He could tear me to pieces._ " A rush of heat flared through his groin at the thought, a tingle of excitement that made him twitch in his half undone pants. " _Oh I'm a sick fuck…_ " And his grin stretched into wickedness. "I think you forgot one step there", he spoke softly, struggling to control his breath as he lowered his face towards his prey. "You have to pick the fruit before you can devour it." The words struck a vicious spark in the green eyes; a challenge, always appreciated a challenge. " _Don't we both?_ " His own eyes looked the same, he was sure, as he ran one finger up the demon's throat and out to the beard that tipped his chin. "Let's see you do that first, your highness", he smiled, tugging the goatee playfully and leaving a feather-light kiss on the smirking lips.

"The King of Beasts will contest the King of Time, is that it…? Well well~"

Shiro's hand had been pressing against the warm chest beneath him, but now the pressure lessened; the fringes that framed Mephisto's face rose up to tickle his forehead, and something laid itself over his back… Without his senses registering any movement, they had suddenly switched position; and Shiro lay pinned on the sheets in Mephisto's four-poster bed.

"I can imagine that's a rather handy trick?" Shiro grinned up at him.

"Oh yes: as is this."

The next thing he knew, his arms were stretched above his head. He tried to lower them, only to discover that his wrists had been tied to the iron lacework of the headboard with his belt. A tingling thrill travelled down his spine and curled itself to rest in his gut: looking up at that devilish grin and those half-lidded eyes, it was evident who was predator and who was prey.

"What, you don't trust me~?" he smirked, tugging at his bonds.

"I wouldn't try my hand at taming a lion unless I'd made sure it was securely chained, Shiro-pon~" Shiro's shirt buttons came undone, one by one at agonizingly slow pace.

"You don't want a tame lion", he breathed through a smirk. His eyes fell shut faintly, his body relishing the feeling of kisses and nibbles on his skin, and the soft tickle of Mephisto's beard trailing down his abdomen. "That'd be n-nnh~ that'd be no fun." The demon's tongue teased the soft skin where ridge of muscle outlined his groin -  _god_ , it felt- But, where had his underwear go-? " _Now_ that's  _a handy trick._ "

"I beg to differ", he purred, looking extremely pleased with himself. "Taming a beast can be very… enjoyable~"

Mephisto curled his fingers around his hard cock and licked it slowly, base to head, taking his time to lap at the veins that throbbed just beneath the skin. The tip of his tongue dipped into the slit; swirled, prodded… Shiro raised his hips, wanting more. Mephisto only responded by sliding a hand to his hip bone and hold him down. Then the hand slid lower, fingers starting to work the base of his shaft – small motions,  _frustrating_ motions – while his tongue swept over the head, occasionally making Shiro's breath hitch by flicking over the string of skin that connected head to shaft.

" _Taking his merry time, that bastard._ " So agonizingly slowly… But he sure knew what he was doing. Shiro's eyes shut as a wave of pleasure pushed a moan up his throat; and immediately opened again. Mephisto had stopped, pausing –  _pausing?_ – to tuck his long fringes behind his ears.

A salacious grin, the kind that meant no good, touched the demon's lips before he-

"N-nnh~" Shiro's hips bucked, or tried to, as Mephisto slid the head of his cock into his mouth. Only the head; one clawed hand on his hip made sure of that. " _That shitface…!_ " It  _was_ payback. That grin had told him all he needed to know: Mephisto would tease him and taunt him as long as he pleased, until the lion was tamed to his liking. " _He can keep on dreaming. Nnh_   _but that's one hell of a silver tongue he's got..._ "

It was a tongue that melted moans from his lips, a steady dripping of oil onto a fire that burnt hotter with each slow stroke. The demon slowly coaxed him harder, to the point it was unbearable; slowly teased the burning need until building pleasure became unreleased pain. Shiro clenched his teeth around the gasps and moans, calling upon every ounce of self-control not to give Mephisto the pleasure of hearing him beg. He would not give in, would  _not_ give in, no matter how much he wanted that asshole to-

"Just suck it, you bastard", he panted, trembling with need under the thin film of sweat that coated his heaving chest.

Opposite effect. Of course.

"Tsk tsk, such language, Shiro."

Language?  _Now_?

"Pardon me, your highness", he returned with a pleasant smile, "but I don't think I'm the one with the dirty mouth here." There was a thick string of cum and saliva dangling from Mephisto's lip... and it made Shiro want to grasp his hair and force him down until he had swallowed his entire length. " _You did right in tying me up._ " Had his hands been free, there would have been no pausing or teasing.

"Well well; I shall have to do my best not to dirty it further, then", he purred, licking the semen from his lip with a smile that sent burning jolts of lust through Shiro's cock.

…a tease. A sadistic tease of monstrous proportions, with all the technique of an Inquisition torturer. Minutes felt like hours, seconds like days: Shiro writhed on the tousled sheets, the muffled creak of leather groaning around his wrists. It felt incredible - a maddening incredible. Flaming lust throbbed in his gut, ate his thoughts, eroded his defiance: he needed the friction, needed those soft lips closed tightly around his cock. But Mephisto didn't touch him.

" _I hate you, I_ hate  _you_ ,  _you pointy-eared fucking pest - but it's so_ good _…!_ "

The demon kept bobbing his head up and down, enclosing him without touching him, just letting the warm breath wrap around his cock with unfulfilled promises of hot, wet pleasure. Shiro's abdomen clenched and unclenched around needy, ragged breaths, his fingers curled around the iron swirls that held him prisoner. It didn't matter how he squirmed or bucked his hips, Mephisto didn't let him have what he so desperately wanted.

"Hnnnh~ just… Do it properly, you-haah~"

"And what's the word…?" The demon smirked sweetly at him, crawling up along his body like a deadly, slender feline toying with cornered prey.

He wouldn't give in, wouldn't beg, wouldn't-

"Please", he panted. Screw pride, screw dignity: all he wanted was to end the torture and come. "Give it to me,  _please_."

"Good boy~" Absinthe eyes caressed his features approvingly, sliding sinful looks over his damp skin. He'd  _won_.

*poof*

The belt around his wrists disappeared, and Shiro propped himself up on his lower arms. Mephisto's lips was already making its way down his chest, fast, eager, and-

"Nnnh…" Shiro's fingers buried in the demon's hair, and his eyes closed in bliss as the heat of Mephisto's mouth finally swallowed- "Hah… ah- _haahnn_ …" His lips slid down his shaft slowly, slowly, taking in his whole length in one greedy swallow. "Nnh Mephis-nhh~" Shiro's body arched when the demon began to move up and down under his hand – dear god, he'd never even  _imagined_ …! "Haah haah nnnh  _yes_ …!" It was heaven; the wrong kind of heaven, but one he wasn't going to trade for anything. Muscles contracted deep in the demon's throat when he swallowed, tightened around him every time the head of his cock pushed into the hot, wet tightness, and drove him delirious with pleasure. "More! I-nnh Meh-aah Mephisto…!" He bucked his hips into the demon's mouth and gasped as sharp teeth ghosted over skin in response. Satin soft and lethal sharp, the familiar thrill sent jolts of fire through his gut. His fingers clenched in purple hair, body rushing towards a long-awaited orgasm that built, built- "Kee-haah keep going! Just a little more, I-nnh  _more_!" Mephisto's motions came more erratically, fingers gently rolling Shiro's balls between them. His head fell backwards, eyes shut, breath fluttering at the top of his lungs as he thrust harder-

Shiro's eyes snapped open, and for one befuddled, breathless moment he had no idea of anything. Then he realised he was in his bed, and it was still dark, and-

" _What the_ hell _did I just dream…?_ " His eyelids grated like sandpaper against his eyes when he rubbed at them. " _I'm throwing the rest of those onigiri away. Right now._ " After a quick visit to the bathroom, that was: the dream had left him with a pressing –  _throbbing_  – matter to take care o-

"Sweet dreams~?"

Shiro sat bolt upright in his bed, hitting his forehead on the empty bunk above and-

"Must be terribly annoying, to get disrupted just when things were getting good", chimed the all-too-familiar voice, coming from a white blob atop the bookshelf. "Alas, a gentleman like myself couldn't bear to leave such desperate pleas unanswered: too cruel on my noble heart."

This wasn't happening.

"I wouldn't mind taking a lion to bed." Shiro's body couldn't decide whether it was hot or cold, much like his mind couldn't decide if he should kill Mephisto or himself or both. "Especially not when the lion's voice is so sweet on one's ears~" No, god,  _no…!_ "You make my name sound so  _dirty_ , Shiro~"

Shiro grabbed the first solid object within reach and threw it.

* * *

What later became known as the White Night fed on the many question marks surrounding its origin, and came to be explained as everything from a poltergeist attack to an indication that study stress had finally cracked Fujimoto Shiro's mind. The only thing the corridor's inhabitants could say for sure was that said student had sprinted down the hall like a rabid dog in nothing but his bed sheet, hurling everything he could get his hands on into walls, and roaring something about a "shit-eating, cunt-faced, perverted fucking incubus".

Some students, although they admitted they were still half-asleep and rather disoriented when it happened, claimed they had heard unhinged laughter in the corridor besides Fujimoto's profanities, and that they thought this to have been some sort of ghost. Others speculated if maybe the ghost had been the one to toss things around in the first place, since no human could possibly have thrown the vending machine halfway across the hall like that. In all, several versions of White Night lived on in the Academy's urban legends for many years to come, although the true nature of it never came to light.

Because the ones who learnt the truth were made to swear under oath never to tell a soul about it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For **Zeitdieb** : some shameless flirting with her fic _Puppeteer_. ;3
> 
>  **Shiro had it coming…** And no, I couldn't make it a "real" event. My basic reasoning is as follows: Mephisto won't let anyone get in the way of his plans, and that does not exclude himself. I imagine he's beckoned by all manner of temptations that he would love to give in to, but if they pose a risk to his long-term goals he will go against his own nature and abstain from them. His main aim isn't getting Shiro in bed (not that he would mind that) but to groom him for more important purposes.
> 
>  **…I know I've got very competent smut writers sitting in front of the computer screen right now. ^_^'** I tip my hat to you and the work you do. I found this genre a bit of an uphill run, but feedback tells me it wasn't as bad as it looked on my screen. Thank you guys, it means a lot to me. ^u^
> 
>  **Hermes** , that I put as one of Samael's earlier aliases in Inferno ch 21, also fills a function as "dream master": namely, he directs dreams from the underworld into the minds of sleeping people. =P I thought it would fit somebody who is King of Time and Space, since he's evidently capable of transferring minds across dimensions: maybe he'd be able to transfer other things to your mind, such as dreams/illusions?


	34. Explanations

" _Wonder if this is part of payback, too, or if the bastard just got lucky…_ "

Because explaining to his two best friends why he had thrown chairs after their principal-

Well, first of all, to explain why their principal had been in his dorm room at night was-

And explaining this while he tried to hide the painful erection pressing against his boxers-

Shit, explaining why he even  _had_  a hard-on in the first place-

"I'm not sure how to explain this." Good start. Shizuku and Ryuuji, who had hauled him into their room when he had stomped back to his own, patiently awaited the rest. "But I can say that it's not what it looks like." Best fucking explanation he'd ever pulled. Great job.

"Really? 'Cause ta me it looks like ye chased ye' demon friend outta yer room at night, wearing nothin' but ye' bed sheet." And Shizuku himself looked like he was very sceptical to the 'not what it looks like' part. His eyebrows were amazing that way.

"I  _have_ underwear under it", Shiro huffed, trying to adjust the sheet around his waist: said underwear was a bit of a tight fit at the moment. "He was in there 'cause he was paying me back for a prank I pulled on him, that's all."

There was still a reasonable amount of doubt and questions on Shizuku's features, which wasn't unexpected since the whole situation did look rather… suggestive. Shiro shifted again, trying to hide the bulge in the sheet as much as circumstances allowed.

"Did he get back at you…?" Ryuuji asked from his seat on his bunk.

"What do you think? I threw a fucking vending machine after him." And would have a tremendously sore arm tomorrow, if the thick pain in his shoulder was any indication. Thank god Saburota was away on mission, otherwise- God? God had nothing to do with that: a certain smug demon had.

"Kinda has me curious", Shizuku resumed, looking him up and down and scratching his chin. "What does one hav'ta do te you ta make ye so pissed ye can lift a vending machine?"

There was a moment of silence, in which Shiro failed to come up with a credible and less embarrassing substitute for what Mephisto had actually done.

"You don't want to know." This statement was followed by another silence that let him realise just how suggestive  _that_  sounded. "Uh, I mean…" How many times had he told himself not to open his mouth when he was tired…?

"I recall ye bellowin' something 'bout a perverted fucking incubus…?" Shizuku pointed out helpfully, and cocked his head to the side with a raised eyebrow.

Shiro massaged his forehead with an unarticulated grumble. Brilliant, absolutely brilliant; running down the corridor and shouting so that everybody could hear…

"Well, not literally a perverted fucking incubus; just a male demon with a twisted sense of humour. He sprinkled oneiroi dust in my face while I was asleep and fiddled with my dreams", he muttered, rubbing remaining particles from his eyelashes.

It was the same substance that had led non-exorcists to invent the concept of Sandman. Reality wasn't that romantic: the "sand" was dandruff from the oneiroi, spirits that induced and lived in human dreams. Oneiroi themselves were harmless, wandering nomadically from dream to dream merely to have a place to stay. It was when they were tailed by their nastier cousins - mares that re-cast dream into nightmare - that problems like fatigue and sleepwalking might arise.

"That's pretty creative, I'll give 'im that", Shizuku chuckled. "In what way did 'e fiddle with 'em?"

"I'd rather not discuss that." With anyone. Ever.

"Come on, ya tossed a  _vending machine_! I wanna know how ta make ye that mad!"

…and that was some rather unpleasant mental images too, yes. Shizuku had quite a few things in common with his sister sometimes.

"No, you don't, and you never will", Shiro concluded, and grasped the door handle to get back to his own ro-

"Meh, well… I guess I can just ask Pheles instead."

Shiro...  _twitched._ On the outside, that was: on the inside it was more like a convulsion, which most likely came from the death throes his pride would be in if Shizuku made good on his threat.

"NO YOU WILL NOT!" Shiro was pointing with his whole arm, and speaking much louder than he had intended to. "Not a word, not a breath, not even a  _thought_ of this in his presence, do you hear me?!"

"I hear ya, I hear ya: like just about the rest o' the dorm does." Shizuku seemed more than a little taken aback by the unexpectedly strong response to such a simple bait. "Relax, I'm just curious o' what-"

Shizuku was interrupted by the peculiar sound of someone so embarrassed he's giggling, but trying not to giggle as that would be even more embarrassing. And whatever he was so torn about, Ryuuji was too giddy to say. When he eventually got enough hold of himself to spill, Shiro wished he hadn't.

"I think I can guess what you dreamt." Ryuuji's cheeks were burning red, but he couldn't stop laughter form bouncing in his voice. "You smell like someone who has… been visited by an incubus."

Of course. Of course: he had the same good nose for pheromones as Mephisto and Midori had,  _of course_ he could smell that Shiro had been turned on mere minutes ago…!

"Perverted fucking incubus, huh…?" Shizuku said, looking at Shiro as if he had expected that all along. What the hell, he had  _expected_ Shiro to…?

" _You sure planned this out well, you shithead._ " Okay, first things first: "It was a  _dream_. I'm not gay, and not for some grinning jerk of a demon", he grated out, changing his stance in hope of finding some way to lessen the discomfort in his underwear. "He just loves teasing me about it."

Some words make people's jaws drop, and some make their entire faces fall in astonishment.

"You mean he…?"

"Ye dreamt ye slept with- with  _him_?"

Well shit.

" _Is it even possible to screw up this bad?_ "

There had been a slight misunderstanding concerning the nature of Shiro's dreams, only he realised that far too late. Shizuku and Ryuuji had thought his dreams had been about women: induced by Mephisto, yes, but about women. When they realised what kind of dream it had really been, both of them fell down screaming with laughter. And probably woke the few people in the dorm who weren't awake already.

"It's not that funny, guys." It wasn't. It really wasn't. It was not funny  _at all_  but the two howling teenagers on the floor didn't care.

"Ye kidding?! It's the best I've heard in-wahahahahaaa! Glorious! Glorious!"

"Shiro, you- you-nhnhnhnhnaahahhaha I can't believe it! This i-hihihihahaha it's just-"

" _The worst fucking day of my life_ ", Shiro filled in, standing before his laughing best friends with an aching hard-on in his boxers and ears heating up as if they were aiming to catch fire. Well, he wouldn't mind if they did. If he could just spontaneously self-combust he would at least save himself the humiliation. "Shut up, you two." As if. Hopefully, Shizuku would faint from lack of air soon. "You're not telling a soul about this, okay?  _No one_. Especially not Kasumi-chan." They both nodded, gasping for air and tittering like bloody kindergarten girls. "I have no idea how to erase those dreams from my brain, or how I'm gonna get back at that shitty little imp, but I  _will_  make him pay for this."

"How-nhhnhnh how- how did you make him this mad at you in the first place…?" Ryuuji panted, wiping his tears on his sleeve. In the dark his tanuki heritage showed clearly in the way the dim light reflected back from his eyes. It also highlighted how very un-demonic an Astro Boy pyjamas can make you look.

* * *

…explanations never come out as they were meant to, when it's three o'clock in the morning and your pride has passed on prematurely without you.

"Okay, lemme get this straight: ye – in a sense, maybe, sort of, kinda, might have –  _flirted_  with him…?" Shizuku recapped, sitting cross-legged on his bunk and staring at Shiro as if hoping for a less incredible explanation.

Which he was not going to get.

"I didn't  _flirt_ with him", Shiro grimaced. He'd been given a desk chair to sit on, and kept one leg sloppily crossed over the other to hide the waning-but-still-visible bulge. "It was a… a strategic deception with sexual undertones. Crap, that sounds even worse."

"It sounds like what you described. I mean… You were  _undressing_ him."

Shiro cringed at Ryuuji's words. Yes, he  _had_ undressed Mephisto, or started to, but it sounded-

"Somehow it's impossible to talk about this without making it sound really weird", he muttered.

"And ye didn't think that it was a weird thing ta do in the first place…?"

"Of course, but…" Shiro ran a hand through his unruly hair, as if trying to physically sort out his scrambled thoughts. It  _was_ a weird thing to do, when he thought about it: and yet, it had somehow seemed like a completely logical thing to do. "It's not something I'd do to any of you guys, or anyone else." The mere thought of stripping Ryuuji was- No. Just no. "It's different with Mephisto. It's not a weird thing to do around  _him._ " …which in itself sounded extremely weird. "Shit, I don't know, it's just… It's a demon thing. I can't- Ow!"

"Just checkin' if yer ears 're growing pointy yet." The look on Shizuku's face suggested that only part of that was a joke. Shiro didn't like that look at all. "Honestly, Shiro-san… That demon-charmer thing ye've got goin' is kinda creepy. Doesn't it ever scare ya…? That ye… That it comes so naturally to ya? That ye act like one without even thinking 'bout it – an' this whole thing with having ta actively block demons from possessing ya, it's… Just what the hell are ya?"

Shizuku realised how that sounded the moment he said it and let out an awkward chuckle as looked down, scratching the back of his head. Good; because Shiro had just experienced a moment of clarity that he wasn't eager to share just yet.

"Sorry, that came out wrong. I'm tired. What I meant was… Screw it, I don't know what I meant. I don't know what you are, an' ta be honest I don't really get ya." He chortled tiredly. "Ye're like that mysterious guy in manga that no one knows anything 'bout, an' then outta the blue ye do crazy stuff an' turn out ta be some kind 'a unda'cova' superhero."

Superhero…

"Special attack: throwing vending machines", Ryuuji suggested with a wide smile.

"An' if 'e's in a tight spot, 'e can use 'is Devilish Charm ta seduce 'is enemies", Shizuku fell in with an unsober giggle.

"And I would have x-ray glasses that let me see through women's clothes."

"Why would ye wanna see through  _women's_ clothes…?"

* * *

A few more minutes of laughter and tired brains and they had added the final touches to the Perverted Paladin: a legendary superhero with the power to see through (select) clothes, skin pores that could emit love potion in gas form (possibly explaining the clouds of glittering particles surrounding Oscar de Jarjayes in  _Berusayu no Bara_ ), and the ability to summon vending machines through step dancing (it had something to do with Mephisto snapping his fingers whenever he summoned something, and what gesture would be the equivalent of that for the Perverted Paladin, but Shiro might have been too tired to catch the entire reasoning behind the step dance conclusion).

They had eventually decided that some sleep before tomorrow would be nice, and Shiro had said goodnight and walked back to his own room. The rest of the inhabitants on their floor had gone back to sleep as soon as it was clear that no danger was afoot. The dorm was silent, and no matter how softly he padded over the floorboards his steps seemed to echo in the darkness.

Silence is an awful thing. It makes one's thoughts that much louder.

 _That demon-charmer thing ye've got goin' is kinda creepy._   _Doesn't it ever scare ya…? That it comes so naturally to ya?_

It was a very simple statement; Shizuku probably hadn't even thought about what he was saying. It's those simple statements that tip worlds on end. It was the first time Shiro realised that the things about demons that were obvious to him, weren't obvious to others. And in most cases never would be. The spur-of-the-moment things he did because they seemed natural didn't seem natural at all to others.

Did it scare him? At times, maybe. But what good did being afraid do? The imprint wasn't going away. Demons weren't going to stop coming after him. All he could do was to make the best of the situation and try as best he could to live as he had bef-

"Ouch, son of a-!"

Ryuuji looked surprised to see him again so soon, when he opened the door to the room he and Shizuku shared.

"I was just gonna ask if you could wake me for school tomorrow", Shiro said, twiddling the cog he'd stepped on between his fingers. "I chucked my alarm clock at Mephisto."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Oneiroi** is Greek for "dreams", and the personification of such.


	35. Deceptive things

Unreliable bastards, words. They claim so proudly that they are instruments of communication, invented to bridge the gap between minds, to give shape to thought and enable one human being to share hers with another: yet they corrupt the signal, distort the intention, and create more misunderstandings than they resolve.

 _Obvious_ is an especially useless word. Something obvious is something that is so blatantly apparent that words are superfluous. There is no string of thought leading to an insight that is obvious, no way for you to guide someone else to it by describing the path you took to get there. It's just there. A destination without road, a chicken without egg… Why in the world is there a word like _obvious_ , when what's obvious to you isn't necessarily obvious to someone else? When you can't explain your _obvious_ to anyone, since the concept of _obvious_ negates all explanation?

* * *

Shiro knew there was a difference between humans and demons: of course he knew that. But knowing… isn't the same as understanding.

"How's ya' shoulder?"

He'd been asked that all day, and each time he'd worn that confused look of someone snapping back to the surface after being submerged in the depths of thought. By the time Shizuku halted him in the corridor between lunch and history, he'd stopped trying to adjust the bandage to a comfortable position. There was no comfortable position. Despite the ice treatment, the bruised area hurt like a bitch, and would continue to do so for quite a while.

"Strained a muscle", Shiro replied. "I'm told I'm gonna have to rest it for a week and get on a rehabilitation programme."

"Huh. No sparring 'gainst Kasu, then." Shizuku hefted his satchel a little higher onto his own shoulder. "What about the rest o' yer exams?"

"I'll be taking the remaining ones orally."

"Anythin' else ya'll be taking orally…?" asked the pilgrim with an especially lewd grin. He wouldn't tell a soul about Mephisto's prank, no. Remind Shiro of it? Oh yes.

"Wanna take my fist orally?" he returned casually. "Doctors don't get practical training till the second year, but I'm pretty sure I can locate your cardia for you."

"Whateva' the cardia is, I'm sure mine's doin' fine without yer help."

* * *

Shizuku wouldn't dream of playing pranks on demons. He was a smart guy, he was: but his brain followed an entirely different track. He knew by heart what was taught at cram school about demons' elemental weaknesses and habits, and how to make use of that… but he didn't understand them. Not the way Shiro did. Be it imprint, or just spending time around Mephisto, or both; Shiro understood demons, understood how they worked and how to use that against them.

And understanding… isn't the same as knowing. Knowledge can be put in words and set in print, defined and explained from one mind to another. Understanding is like _obvious_ : a destination without road, an insight that can't be taught or learnt, because understanding comes from within. And Shiro… understood demons.

Did it scare him? Not really. Actually…

" _Not gonna lie to myself, even if that's the only one I don't lie to._ "

…it thrilled him. Which was far worse. Someone who is scared keeps his distance, and avoids harm in doing so: someone who is thrilled comes back for more kicks.

_Little by little, he will burn you to ashes_

Not to say that he was suicidal: there _is_ a difference between daring and suicidal. He wouldn't get involved in the Tanzi affair, wouldn't step up on Mephisto's grand game board – but what if that wasn't enough? As Shiro walked on autopilot from one classroom to another, doubts softly followed his steps through the dark corridors of his mind.

Change is nearly as deceptive as words. You'll notice change in the slow fall of the sun that draws shadows longer, and in the snowflake that melts to a droplet in your upturned palm; you won't notice it on your face, when the mirror glass watches the slow, eroding river of time flowing over your skin form day to day. Rapid change, slow change – still, you'll notice them both sooner or later. But change within? Without eyes to see the shadows in your mind, how do you tell if they've faded or grown darker?

Eyes are the mirrors of the soul, yes: gaze into another's eyes and you can tell how much you've changed. When Shizuku and Ryuuji had looked at him yesternight, Shiro had realised that he had changed – into what? A demon charmer, charmed by his own imprint-enhanced vices? A human that understood demons to the point where other humans couldn't understand him? And if that change was allowed to continue, then what?

Shiro had reminded himself time and again that what the ikelos had showed him during Knight exam was his fears, not his future. …and yet, the blood had felt warm on his hands; just like it had been in Deep Keep, when the nightmare had been real.

* * *

Afternoon invited more doubts, and after another 20 minutes with an ice pack strapped to his chest he decided to go to the only person he could take such problems to. Even if said person made his skin crawl.

"Hi. I was just wondering if you had the time to… I don't know. Talk?" he told the short girl that opened when he knocked.

She didn't reply, but smiled and stepped aside to let him enter.

It was a room that looked surprisingly normal considering the two girls that lived in it. Like last time, Midori's bed linen were on the floor. On the desks and shelves was an assorted collection of peculiar treasures she had brought in, anything from yesteryear's birds' nests and lost earrings to empty cigarette cartons and heaps of dried berries. When he noticed the porcelain doll head that served as lamp screen, he began to think he had exaggerated on the "surprisingly normal" thought.

Sen closed the door behind him, and tiptoed with her mini-steps to take a seat on her zabuton. Rather than remain standing and waiting for an invite that may never come, Shiro sat down on the floor and crossed his legs.

"Uhm…" Where to begin? What to say? He wasn't good at this kind of thing to begin with, and bringing his personal issues up with _Sen_ of all people-

"Uncle Itsuhito told me you summoned the dogs of the underworld."

Sen, who was the only person in the world that could say something like that and make it sound like she was discussing weather.

"Yeah, I did", he said once he remembered that Futotsuki-sensei's first name was Itsuhito. "Did he say anything else?" Like whether it was a good or a bad thing that his summon had become a much more aggressive one?

"He said you cleared the practical part of Tamer exams with no remarks."

"Well, that's nice to know." A brief moment to gather himself. " _I need to do this._ " Shiro's gaze dropped from Sen's face to the pleated pink skirt that rose and dipped over her knees. "What I came to say… You're more used to handling demons than I am. Sometimes I think I'm doing it right, but sometimes I wonder if I am. I was going to ask, if there's anything I can do…"

"There might be, but what I do not know", Sen replied softly. "The Futotsuki handle demons, yes, but we aren't pursued by them like you are. Do you remember what I said last winter? To let darkness be part of you? To look it in the eye until it loses its power over you?" Shiro nodded. "Have you?"

"I… thought I did. I started to remember things I hadn't remembered for a long time, and many things I'd tried to forget. I could think of them without reacting as strongly as I used to." He didn't want to talk about this. At all. "They lost their power over me, at least a bit. I could accept it more and more."

His parents had silently agreed to play a theatre of lies: that he could accept. His father had been a selfish, spineless asshole, and his mother weak and pathetic: that he could accept. He despised them for living a lie, despised them for choosing death instead of cleaning up the stinking mess of debt, disgrace, and solitude that had been his inheritance: that, he had at long last come to accept. Barely. With embers still threatening to burst into flame at times.

But the lies that clung to his own skin, lies he didn't want to tell and secrets he didn't want to keep…

"There are still things in you that you can't accept, and recoil from." He could feel her eyes on him as she spoke. Not a glare that burns holes in one's skin, no; a soft, ghosting touch that forced the hairs on his arms up on end, despite the warmth. "My advice is the same as then: confront your darkness. There are things in all of us that we are not proud of: things done or thought that fill us with shame, disgust, fear, and hate. When you bury these emotions within, they grow darkness that feeds demons. These can never be extinct, for they are part of us; but they can be kept from growing, if you pull out the root from which they draw nourishment. When you unearth what you have buried, and acknowledge the unpleasant sides of yourself, you bring them under your control." Easy to say, so fucking easy to say – but how could he ever muster the strength to dig out every dark nook of his mind…? "No demon is more terrifying than the ones we have within", she continued in the same dreamy voice. "The Futotsuki learn to master them early, but others can fight demons for a lifetime without mustering the power to battle their own." Well, amen to that. "If you find that you can't, then what you can do is build walls around your heart, as you do now. Is not the best thing to do, but it will keep you safe."

Not the best thing to do, but that's what Mephisto had suggested.

" _Of course he suggested that_ ", he thought dryly. " _He's not human, he doesn't understand a human's need for emotional contact._ " And Sen didn't understand that Shiro was, for all practical purposes, like a Futotsuki. He didn't wear their tattooed seals, nor had he bonded with a demon according to their rituals, but he was imprinted, and anything he could learn about the ways of the demon worshipper clan could be of help. "I'll try to do that." Slight shift in pitch, so slight you wouldn't consciously notice, but enough to know the speaker had closed the case and moved on to the next topic: "The Futotsuki learn to master it early, you say."

Sen nodded: a very small motion, but enough to make the combs in her hair catch the sunlight through the window.

"To prepare for bonding with our familiars", she clarified.

"About that… I read a book on the subject, but it didn't really explain why the Futotsuki have this tradition. It said it had to do with knowledge, and that bonding with a demon would grant hidden knowledge…?"

Unreliable bastards, words. They claim they have a set meaning, one that will make it easy for humans to communicate, but the truth is that each human interprets the world according to her own unique set of references. That two humans use the same word doesn't mean they interpret that word the same way, or mean the same thing.

Shiro hadn't been imprinted on a demon when he read that book, and neither had the author that wrote it: "hidden knowledge", the way he had interpreted it, meant some secret that only demons knew of. Now that he had begun to realise the effects of an imprint, he suspected that "hidden knowledge" might be the knowledge of demons themselves; the understanding that set him apart from his classmates.

"Bold inquiries", the Futotsuki girl smiled softly, looking straight through him and into distant worlds. "You must first understand, the Vatican way is not the Futotsuki way." No shit. Shiro nodded politely, adjusting his legs for a more comfortable position as he prepared to take in every word. "They teach that light and darkness are combatants, and that light will eventually vanquish darkness; the Futotsuki believe light and darkness are counterparts. For light there must be darkness, for life there must be death: like yin and yang, the two always exist together, in balance." Gracefully, she raised one small hand, palm facing upwards. "The divine half is yin: consciousness, enlightenment, control." She held up her other hand, like the two bowls of a scale: "The demonic half is yang: impulse, desire, chaos. Together, they form a whole: a human." She brought her hands together, fingers intertwined as if in Catholic prayer. "For a human to be in balance, she must embrace both yin and yang within herself. Yin is docile, and will embrace you back; yang is a wild animal, and must be tamed. When a Futotsuki has come of age, he or she bonds with a demon as the final step in embracing yang, and becomes whole." Sen returned her hands to her thighs with a gentle smile, as if thinking back on cherished memories. "Demons embody our desires, our buried emotions, our darkness: our yang. Bonding with a demon teaches you to be the master of your own nature. If you can do that, you will achieve great insight, and power; if you can not, your desires will devour you."

It's a mere millimetre thin, the dividing line between sanity and madness; perhaps even less. That single millimetre Sen's smile widened froze Shiro from the inside and out.

" _They literally devour you if you're a Futotsuki, don't they?_ " He vividly recalled Shizuku saying that a fifth of the children that undertook the clan's rite of passage didn't make it through. " _It's fucking sick…_ " But not an opinion he would share with Sen, not if he wanted her to tell him more. Bringing his face under control, he asked: "How is that bonding done?"

"The Futotsuki rites belong with the Futotsuki." She tittered like a songbird, covering her teeth with her hand as a lady would. "Comparing it to marriage is the easiest thing, I think. Futotsuki marry twice: first to our demon partner, second to our human partner. It sounds strange to an outsider, I know", she smiled, seeing his face.

"You don't marry a demon in the same sense you marry a human, I'm guessing?" Bonding with Mephisto seemed more and more awkward the more he learnt about the custom. Accidentally marrying a demon – what kind of world-class screw-up did you have to be to accidentally marry a demon?

"No." Well, thank god. "When you marry a human you agree to share life, love, dreams; when you bond with a demon, you share heart. No human can ever be that close to you."

" _So many wrong pictures._ " Shiro groaned inwardly. " _I wish I could turn my brain off. Like a TV._ "

But they kept coming, unbidden pictures that had pushed at their constraints ever since Sen urged him to face the demon within: his own stinking mess, a foul blend of death, regret, and guilt boxed in and hidden away in Deep Keep with the rest of Mephisto's precious collection. Unearth what he had buried? He had buried six bodies in a tomb of lies and secrets, six hundred metres into the cold silence of the earth, and there was no way he could look upon them without breaking. He knew, because their transparent echoes sometimes woke him at night, coated in sweat without duvet or pajamas to blame for it. Humankind is blessed and cursed in that way: whatever dies lives on in memory, for better or for worse.

"I can show you how the Futotsuki meditate when we prepare for bonding", Sen continued, sitting still like a doll and speaking almost like one, too. "If it doesn't help you make peace with your demons, it can at least help you focus when you shield."

Sen guided him through a number of steps on how to sit, how to align his vertebrae for maximum support with minimal effort, how to breathe and how to centre his self on a single point of existence. It was surprisingly difficult, especially the last part. Shiro was a restless nature, with a restless mind, and not well suited for meditation.

" _Be the master of your own nature_ ", he repeated to himself, inhaling and exhaling on Sen's count. " _Or be devoured by it._ "

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:**
> 
> **Cardia** is the first part of the stomach after the oesophagus. (I figure Shiro must've studied anatomy to become Doctor.)


	36. Ways to spend your holiday

Wednesday blanketed True Cross Academy in that good mood holidays tend to bring, and effectively split the student body into two categories: those who were panicked or steadfast enough to cram in a few more studying hours for exams, and those who valued their time of youth and simply couldn't be bothered.

Shiro had spent half an hour in the flower shop on the corner downtown, deciding what to buy, until he remembered that Kasumi didn't have a vase to put flowers in, or even a table to place them on. Crap.

He had considered giving her a hair clip, since the one she had – one in leather, carved with a Dharma-chakra design – was rather threadbare: until Shizuku had told him their father had carved it for her on her seventh birthday. Crap.

He had gone on wondering what the hell to give a girl who carried everything she owned in a bundle on her back, and crafted everything she needed by herself; eventually, he had settled for the one thing he could give her that would be appreciated, useful, and not become dead weight.

He would make her dinner.

"I didn't know you could cook", Ryuuji said in earnest surprise. Himself he could barely make tea, and visited the kitchen solely out of fascination for what Shiro was doing. Which was a rather basic set of bento box dishes, but still; he hoped Kasumi would appreciate the gesture.

"Orphanage standard", Shiro said while beating eggs, sugar, mirin, salt and soy sauce together for the tamagoyaki. "All kids helped out with chores. I just proved better at cooking than cleaning." Not a skill he would advertise he had, but a very useful one still - not the least because it caused people quite the shock when they found out. Apparently, cooking wasn't something you expected a blonde-bleached delinquent to do. "It's cheaper than buying food in the cafeteria anyway." He set bowl and chopsticks aside, and spread oil out over the frying pan with a brush.

"I could treat you, you know. I mean… It's really nice food, and, you know, if you ever want something you can't make yourself…"

Shiro smiled into the hum of the exhaust hood that ate the smell of omelette in greedy gulps. Ryuuji was good material for a Doctor. He had a big heart, always eager to help people: pity the rest of him got in the way.

"Thanks, Ryuuji-san, but I prefer getting by on my own means."

"…but, you don't have any means", he said, confused and more than a little shy to bring up the subject. "You've got no one to pay for school, or food, and you study too much to have a part-time jo-"

"I got a scholarship. I'll work over summer, too." Shiro grimaced, and carefully transferred the first omelette roll onto the cutting board. "Gonna need that, to pay for 'vandalising school property'." Had he known vending machines were _that_ expensive, he would've thrown something else. "Anyway, there's no need to worry, I'll get by."

"I know you'll get by, you always do; it's…" Ruuji's forehead crinkled over affable puppy-eyes that were worried, but unable to pinpoint the reason for their worry. "We just want to be your friends, all of us, we… we _are_ friends, I know that. It's just, sometimes…" Shiro didn't rush him; rushing and pressuring made him stutter worse than Saburota. He began coating the seasoned bits of chicken breast in cornstarch for frying, waiting for Ryuuji to find his words. "Sometimes it's like you're pushing people away", he said softly, and his voice carried emotion as painfully well as when he sang.

"I'm not-" Lie. Fujimoto Shiro kept his distance: always had. As Shizuku had pointed out, Shiro liked joking and hanging with friends. But deep down… "I don't rely on others, that's all."

_Deep down, ye're cold._

The chicken sizzled in the oil, spitting burning hot droplets at Shiro's hands as he quietly added more. Cold, reserved, guarded; he'd heard many words for it. _Trust issues_ were the ones that had been written in the child psychologist's file. _Reluctance to expressing emotion_ was another line – he knew, because he'd sneaked a peek in the notepad once, when Mr. Nobuo had been urgently called to the reception counter. _Might have difficulties in forming close relationships in adult life_. As much as he'd disliked that psychologist, the old fart had diagnosed him rather accurately.

Not that he pushed people away consciously; he _wanted_ to be around people, he just… didn't open up to them. Didn't show weakness around them. Didn't tell them things that he perhaps should have said.

" _Like that I was studying exorcism, that I made friends with Mephisto, that I have to shield myself from demons…_ " The list could be made endless, if one went back to the years before True Cross Academy. Shiro simply didn't confide in people: not by choice, but by nature." _Who wouldn't have trust issues when all people did around you was to play theatre, and shush you when you didn't want to play your part?_ " he huffed, turning the golden nuggets with chopsticks. He'd grown since then, yes. Changed since then. Still, all new things were built on top of the same old foundation that he'd done nothing to repa-

"Um, Shiro-san…?"

He had wandered lost in his thoughts and had completely forgotten about Ryuuji.

"Hm?" he said wordlessly, to show he was listening.

"Just… You know we're here for you, right? If you ever need someone to rely on, we're here for you."

"…thanks", he murmured under the sizzling of the frying pan. He _was_ grateful, he was… But deep down, he doubted he would ever take Ryuuji up on that offer, even if he did find himself in need of someone to rely on.

* * *

Shiro was still in thought when he left the bento boxes to cool before he closed them. Sen's words had calmed him somewhat, but he still felt he didn't know where he was headed. And Kasumi…

Shiro sighed as he entered the dorm shower room, a fresh set of clothes slung over his arm. He was looking forward to his date with Kasumi, of course he was – and yet, this whole trust thing… Tch, why did Ryuuji have to bring that up now? Shiro wanted to have _fun_ with Kasumi, joke and laugh and have a good time, even if they couldn't spar as they had intended to. He didn't want to ponder whether he truly, deeply trusted her, whether he could open up to her, whether he-

" _Whether I can form close relationships._ " Shiro shut his eyes and let the hot water wash over him, raked through his prickly hair and took careful note of any soreness in his shoulder. He'd dated plenty of girls, but never really been _close_ to them. " _Pff, I was never really close to any of my friends, either._ " Never relied on them. " _If I'm ever gonna make a serious attempt, it will be with someone like Kasumi._ " Someone bold and shameless and funny; someone that could give him a match. He wasn't the type to lead a nice, slow-paced life, and neither was she. " _I could hit the roads with her, easily. Travel from place to place, raise enough money to eat and sleep, and see all those crazy things on the way…_ " Shiro smiled into the dense steam that built around him as he rinsed the shampoo out of hi-

Blood.

Shiro squinted and strained his myopic eyes to see clearly: the water that washed down his skin was bright red, but how the hell…? Breath held, he checked himself over. There was no wound, no place that hurt, nothing that-

A jarring suspicion hit him. Shiro snatched up the shampoo bottle, turned it upside down…

"No no no you're kidding me...!"

* * *

"I need a word with the obnoxious fuckhead you call master", he declared bluntly when the front door opened.

"His highness is busy", replied Belial, who had by now become so accustomed to Shiro's lack of manners that any epithet applied to Mephisto worked, so long as Mephisto wasn't there to hear it. Shiro had a slight suspicion that the butler had grown lenient because he appreciated hearing somebody voice the opinions he himself was forbidden to express, but he was going to let that remain a suspicion until he'd wrung Mephisto's neck 270 degrees.

"It's a holiday: he's not fucking busy." Shiro kicked off his shoes and entered past the demon, in no way intending to let some high-score attempt at _Space Race_ stand between him and his natural hair colour. "Where is he?"

"His highness is in his bedchamber."

Probably in the middle of an anime marathon, then. Belial tailed Shiro at respectable distance as he stalked down the hallway, past the arcade games and the dining hall, took a wrong turn at the music room, and finally arrived at Mephisto's door. He checked his wristwatch: half an hour left until he would meet up with Kasumi.

"Oi, if my hair isn't-"

Mephisto did seem rather busy: one succubus straddling his hips and another straddling his face somehow gave that impression.

" _From this day on, I will_ always _knock_ ", Shiro promised the door as he slammed it shut. Crap, crap, crap, this was even worse than walking in on Sen and Midori…

An awkward silence settled in the corridor - or would have, if not for the even more awkward sounds the succubi made on the other side of the door.

"Right", Shiro said. Because what the hell else was he going to do? "He's busy."

"Quite. Would you like some tea while you wait for his highness?"

Shiro gawked at the impeccably unfazed expression, at the flawlessly polite tone _-_ at the rising pitch of the voice crying out 'my prince!' repeatedly behind the door - and burst out laughing. Demons. They didn't know shame.

"Fine, fine, I'll have tea", he chuckled. "But if he isn't done in fifteen minutes, I'll be on my way." He waved offhandedly at Belial when the latter gave him a small nod of a bow. "I'll be in the library."

* * *

Shiro had finished his tea, and come several chapters into _Glass Mask_ , and no Mephisto had shown up. He moved about constantly on the plush couch, checked his watch every ten seconds, and was slowly (and begrudgingly) accepting that he might have to go on his date with-

Finally, the sound of shoji doors sliding apart. Shiro put his glasses back on his nose, and was greeted by the sight of a Mephisto that seemed to have had that smug grin glued onto his face ever since he tampered with his dreams. He came sauntering over in a deep purple morning gown that flowed like liquid over his skin: that special kind of gown, tied in that special kind of way that puts one question in your mind: _is he wearing anything at all under that?_

"Such a dedicated principal, busy even on holidays." Shiro's statement came accompanied by a wolfish smile.

"The only way I would ever want to be busy on a holiday." Mephisto seated himself in the opposite armchair as if it were a throne. "And you…? Shouldn't you be putting on your Sunday best for Miss Honda?"

He knew that? Pff, of course he knew. Spying on students seemed to be his favourite pastime when there were no animes on TV. Mepphy Land was for entertaining the humans, the Academy campus was for entertaining the demon. As it were, the demon in question crossed one leg over the other in his usual fashion, with the effect that the silky morning gown slid to reveal one very long, very slender leg.

" _Nope, not wearing anything under that_ ", Shiro guessed without any real surprise. "Interesting that you bring up that. I was just going to, when-" No, he couldn't go on like this. Taking a moment to fight the twitch in his eyebrow into submission, he resumed: "Could you stop smugging me?"

"Smugging you…?" Mephisto did a surprisingly good job of looking innocent, considering what he had been doing mere minutes ago.

"You know, that thing you do with your face that makes me want to set fire to your beard?" Shiro elaborated as politely as he could.

"My, it couldn't be that my little prank vexed you...?" And there it was: smugness so disgustingly contented it deserved its own transitive verb. "You seemed to quite enjoy it~"

"If you think a flying vending machine is a sign of appreciation, you've missed some rather fundamental parts of human communication."

"If you think arousal is a sign of antipathy, I'd say you are the one who has missed fundamental parts of human communication."

Word-fencing with demons: a sport for people who love losing. Shiro had to suppress a very, very strong desire to rip out the pages in _Glass Mask_ before the demon's eyes. However, he needed Mephisto's cooperation…

"Whatever; look, I don't have all day. I'm going on a date in fifteen minutes, and you will fix my hair before I do."

"How do you mean 'fix'? I think it looks good the way it is."

"Yes, lovely: but the thing is, I'm not going on a date with you", Shiro smiled with poisoned pleasantness. "I'm going on a date with Kasumi-chan, and I'd rather not go looking like cotton cand-"

The real candy sashayed into the library without a thread on either body, and Shiro forgot everything he had been about to say, or why he was in Faust Mansion in the first place. Succubi often have that effect.

Long, slender legs carrying a goddess the colour of coffee, an alluring Amazon that looked like she would taste of dark chocolate and caramelized almonds. Bloody hell, one night with her and he could die happ-

Curls of glistening copper bounced against hourglass curves of cream-skinned sin, and he worshipped every part of her, from her full breasts to her arrow- tipped tail.

"You leave us for him, your highness…?" the red-haired one purred; Shiro could swear to god he felt her voice physically, like golden syrup tracing ringlets up his thighs. "He must be something special~"

"An acquired taste, my dear, and a rather particular such", Mephisto replied easily, and looked smugger than ever.

The tall, dark succubus glided across the room and ran her finger along the backrest of the headmaster's chair. She poised herself behind him, sliding her hands down his thin frame as she leaned forward, ravenous eyes locked on Shiro with a look that made him pant with need.

"He looks like dessert", she murmured, leaving scratch marks on Mephisto's chest that healed over instantly; all Shiro could think of was a panther sharpening its claws for the kill.

"One I must deny you, since he is a student of mine." Mephisto tipped his head back to meet her lips, that insufferable jerk, knowing full well what the display did to Shiro's compos- "Unless, of course, the dessert wants to be eaten~?" Three pairs of predator eyes, one green and two lavender, settled on Shiro: the green ones in particular held a mischievous glimmer that meant no good. "It's hardly appropriate for a headmaster to toss his protégées into the hands of Gehenna's finest courtiers." The rich giggles of the succubi made the blood throb in Shiro's veins. The voluptuous redhead threaded her fingers into Mephisto's purple hair, and the demon responded by sliding his hand to the small of her back and planting a kiss in the soft dip of her groin. "However~ this is a holiday, and school is temporarily closed. Furthermore, the Academy's jurisdiction does not include my private estate, so…" he sighed in feigned defeat. "If the folly of youth were to seize hold of a young soul under such conditions, the Academy's headmaster would have no mandate to stop him."

…had Shiro had a single sober thought left in his head, he might have cared to keep his facial muscles in check and look a little less like a testosterone-tripping dimwit. As it were, he hadn't.

" _Am I being offered a threesome with two insanely hot demon chicks…?_ "

Every kinky fantasy a teenage mind has ever conceived melted over his retina. If Common Sense was trying to tell him anything he didn't hear it, as his ears filled with the fevered panting of lust pulsing through his blood. And Mephisto sat there, smirking, one hand on each succubus as if they were obedient attack dogs waiting for his command. Oh yes, let folly sweep this young soul off his feet and into bed for the rest of that da-

"I have a date." And a throbbing tent in his trousers that he didn't even bother trying to hide. But Shiro did have a date, and, as much as it drained his self-control to decline Mephisto's offer, he would not see that date ruined. "And it's due in fifteen minutes, so if you're not gonna fix my hair I'll have to be on my way right now."

"Going like that?" he smirked. It was rather evident to Shiro that Mephisto was not speaking of his pink hair. "Carmilla doesn't need more than a tenth of that time to finish you off." The copper-haired succubus licked her lips with a hungry smile, and Shiro's self-control wavered like a candle-flame in wind. "And, if I'm wrong in that estimation", Mephisto continued with a grin, "I will turn your hair whichever colour you like."

It was probably a stupid thing to do, but he couldn't face Kasumi in his current state, and he might get his hair returned to normal - and, most importantly, he was a teenage guy with a billion hormones clogging his cognitive facilities.

"And if you're right?" he managed to say after swallowing a few times.

"You keep dying it pink the whole next semester: and if anyone asks why, you aren't allowed to say it's because of a bet."

"Well…" Screw dignity: there was no one around to see the wolfish grin growing on his lips except demons. "Youth's prone to folly, so… Deal."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:**
> 
>  
> 
> I got a question, once, about exactly _how_ this bet went down. That was on FF.net, so I had to leave that part out, but the truth is it went down there and then: Mephisto poofed himself a stopwatch, and Carmilla went down on Shiro. No private room or anything like that. (All in the interest of making it a fair bet, of course: how could he be sure there was no cheating if he wasn't present to observe~?) I don't really know who enjoyed it most (both Shiro and Mephisto had a pretty good time xD) but if there's an interest for it I could write the scene out and put it in _Between the End and the Beginning_. =)


	37. Beyond all expectation

"Nice hair ye've got, Shiro-kun!" Kasumi smiled as she skipped down from the railing of the bridge. They had agreed to meet by the night market square, even if it was broad daylight and no market in sight.

"…yeah, Mephisto thought so too", he panted, having run most of the way from campus. Stupid demon, stupid bet – stupid idiot brain that conveniently forgot succubus saliva is the strongest known aphrodisiac in Gehenna.

"I'm gonna feel bad about beating ya up when ye're this worn out before we've even started sparring." Kasumi rocked back on her heels, walking staff slung across her shoulders like a yoke and lower arms dangling leisurely over it. "Ya got stamina like an eighty-year-old."

"I know, I know." Mephisto had said something similar, the lecherous little imp... Shiro wiped his face with his tie: the latter had bounced around and  
slapped him in the face when he ran, and eventually he had slipped it off. "You'll haahhave to beat me up some ohther time, I'm not fit for exercise rhight now. Got haah got myself a training injury", he puffed, indicating his right shoulder.

"Easier still ta beat ya up, then", she grinned, and twirled her staff around like a full-blown martial arts expert; it halted a mere decimetre from Shiro's nose. "But I think yer pride's taken enough damage from runnin' through town with that hair already, so I'll be nice." The staff made an elegant somersault and landed back in her hand. With a pleased smile and a clonk from the staff, she set the end down on the age-smoothed wooden boards of the bridge.

"You think it's a nice gesture to spare me, rather than end my suffering?" Shiro hoisted his eyebrows high to exaggerate the act. "You're a cruel woman."

"Well, if that's how ye like it~"

Shiro juggled the bundle with the bento boxes over to his right hand, to make sure he wouldn't move that arm around too much when he dodged Kasumi's playful jabs. They attracted quite a bit of attention from people around, and the occasional frown from elders who were of the opinion that it wasn't proper for adults to play with sticks in public. It so happened that Shiro rather enjoyed playing with sticks in public, and if he could irk some uptight old fart by doing so, he enjoyed it even more.

"Alright, twinkle-toes: what's that suspicious bundle ye're guardin' so carefully?" Kasumi eventually ceased her barrage of thrusts, after successfully herding Shiro backwards so that he was almost run over by a horse carriage. There were all kinds of things one could do in True Cross Town when holidays ambushed the calendar, of which one was going for an old-fashioned European two-span ride. Or getting ploughed down by one.

"Dinner." He assumed a better grip on the bundle and hoped to heaven that the dishes hadn't become jumbled when he hopped around. "I was gonna bring flowers, but you don't strike me as a flower type of girl."

"Aww, but ye did bring me flowers, didn't ya~?" Kasumi knew _exactly_ how cute that impish smile made her look, otherwise she wouldn't use it like that. "Right, Fuji~?"

"It sounds so cutesy when you say that", Shiro grimaced. What was it with girls and his surname? Moriyama Sayuri had said the same thing.

"Goes perfect with ye' pink hair", she grinned back. "Guess ye look more like a dahlia, as it were. Come along, we'll find some nice place ta eat that." She nodded her head across the bridge, towards the forested area. "An' what's up with this injury ye've gotten…?"

* * *

The light rain earlier in the day was coaxed out of the vegetation by bright sunlight, and brought with it the lush, steaming smell of earth. Once again  
Kasumi guided him through parts of True Cross Town Shiro didn't know existed: this time a majestic bamboo forest, where thick, bright green stems cropped up on worm-like roots all around them, like pillars in a cathedral that didn't bother with the formality of straight lines. Birds high above called shrill warnings through the rustling of leaves, but other than that the only noise came from their feet and voices.

Eventually, bamboo gave way to trees that curved out over the water like swan's necks to admire themselves in the still surface. It was a bashful place, the kind that draws away from beaten tracks and human disturbance to find peace in shaded groves. Moss clung tightly to the brink of the lake, ducking under the heavy trunks of fragrant mulberry trees and weeping willows that shielded the lake from prying eyes with their green hair. Glistening dragonflies cut through the air, dancing erratically between the glowing cotton motes that left the willows at the gentlest breeze.

"I had no idea there was a place like this here", he admitted. "Where is this?"

"Izanagi's Mirror", she replied, setting her walking staff to rest against the mulberry tree closest by, "from which the moon god was born an' climbed up inta the sky."

"I guess. If old myths were true."

"Nah, I just made it up. I don't know if it has a name – but I _do_ know it holds prefect temp'reture fer swimmin'", she confided, and began the task of undoing the sash that held her robes together.

"Are you serious?" The words fell out of Shiro's mouth out of surprise, not protest. _No_ girl he'd _ever_ dated had proposed to strip down and swim out in the open - not to say he minded that first part of it.

"Think of it as a bikini, ya prude", she smiled, dropping her yukata on a fallen trunk that had been eaten almost to invisibility by grass and moss. She was keeping her underwear on… dammit… but that black bra hugged her breasts perfectly… "Swimmin' is gentler on yer shoulder than sparrin'; good fer stretchin' out an' such." Oh, she was gorgeous, so gorgeous… was she saying something...? "An' ya need a good wash after that sprint."

Shiro was quietly grateful for betting against Mephisto. He would never admit that to the demon's smug face, but he was. Succubi live off sexual energy – can kill people, even, if they seduce the same victim repeatedly – and Carmilla's treatment had drained him enough to prevent any embarrassing mishaps from swimming with Kasumi.

But damn, she was hot. And funny. And rough. And if he was ever going to make a serious attempt with anyone, it was with her.

The water was indeed the perfect temperature. It soothed his skin and washed away the sweat and worries that clung to him. Shiro allowed the muscles in chest and back to stretch gently, as he had been taught to do for rehabilitation. Nothing but birdsong, clear water, and willow seeds filling the air with bright, warm snow… It doesn't take much to distract a human mind from its problems.

They talked of this and that, exchanged good stories, and tried and failed to catch diving beetles that scuttled about near the brink of the lake. Shiro may not have been allowed to say why his hair was pink, but Kasumi had no problem guessing who lay behind. He simply stated that Shizuku had been right in carving him as a wooden donkey.

Back up on land, Kasumi wrung the water out of her hair, and Shiro…

"Shit…" he groaned over the bento boxes. A stupid donkey indeed. "I forgot to bring chopsticks."

"That's cute, Fuji", she snickered, causing Shiro to grimace as if tasting something bitter. No guy wants to be cute, dammit. "We'll just make some then."

After a bit of rummaging in her clothes Kasumi brought out a woodcarving knife, and proceeded to scrutinise the closest mulberry tree for suitable twigs. Shiro jumped, grabbed hold of a branch with his left hand, and pulled it down for her.

"Guess ye're good fe' something after all", she smiled appreciatively, and set to work with cutting them chopsticks.

"Yeah, as Shizu-san's stand-in. Are you sure he's your brother? Or did he get all the family's growth hormones?"

"I've got a knife, Fuji, an' I'm tall enough ta reach the important parts", she threatened with a smile in her voice.

They sat side by side on the fallen trunk, letting the sun dry the few garments they wore while they ate. It was a very simple dinner, and a crude way to eat it, but Shiro couldn't remember he had ever enjoyed a meal more. The silence when they ate was nothing like the awful, tiptoeing tension he had known around the table when he was little. This silence was warm, relaxed, undemanding; peaceful. Peaceful the way very few moments in his life had been.

His eyes wandered idly over the glimmering of water behind the willow leaves, the blades of grass peeking up between his toes, the soft scent of mulberry every time he brought the chopsticks to his mouth… Kasumi's tattoos were spaced symmetrically over her thighs, belly, arms, chest… Tattoos were taboo in Japan, but Shiro didn't mind. He may be a stupid donkey, but not stupid enough to judge people by their looks.

"Normally I'd say it's rude ta stare", she teased with a grin, "but I've got a pretty good view too, so I ain't gonna complain."

"Shameless woman; I was looking at the tattoos", he said reproachfully. …although the body they were on did hold a fair share of his attention, too. "Didn't that hurt?"

"Mh", she grunted in response, mouth stuffed with lemon chicken. "The Futotsuki use the old tebori techniques fe' their tattoos. Takes hours, but there's somethin' in the rhythm – ye know, tchk tchk tchk…" She mimicked the motion of penetrating skin with her chopsticks. "It gets almost meditative after a while, an' when ye focus on that it hurts less. That, on the other hand", she said, pointing the chopsticks at the long scars in Shiro's side, "looks real painful."

"Just a hobgoblin." He traced the pale, shimmering tissue with a finger. "Their claws are made for digging, so they're not that sharp."

Then there was the ugly, triangular scar left by the tengu claw in his thigh; the semi-circle of white dots in his trapezius muscle where the naberius had bit him; the matching, jagged lines on each shoulder, where the tengu had grabbed him; and the by comparison insignificant scar in his eyebrow, from when he had held Shizuku and Kita apart in the changing room.

" _Well, at least I've got eyelids, unlike Goggles-sensei._ " Injuries and loss of body parts were part of the job description if you were an exorcist, but that didn't discourage him – or the others. "Shizu-san's got one huge scar on his back", he remembered. "He never told me what did it."

"Ah, that. So 'e still doesn't talk about it…?" She blew air at a willow seed that drifted dangerously close to her bento. "Well, 'e was at a sensitive age… Kaori an' Kei had left life's path by then: my younger sisters, an' Shizzy's older sisters", she filled in, tapping one chopstick absentmindedly against her lip as she spoke. "So it was mom, dad, me an' Shizzy. We'd been trekkin' north, through the mountains, when the village we stayed the night in was swept by a wyvern." Kasumi pulled a bitter grimace, and for a moment Shiro was reminded that there was a significant difference in age between them; there were lines in her face you wouldn't find in his, carved by time and experiences he hadn't seen. "Kill fer sport, bloody things. The villagers didn't have a clue what was happenin', with people suddenly getting' hoisted inta the air, or torn open like gutted piglets. We did what we could ta buy them time, so mom started chanting." She gazed out beyond the lake, beyond the horizon into the past, mechanically plucking with her remaining food. "It got her in the back, broke 'er spine. But she kept chanting." A translucent smile ghosted her lips. "Dad fought like an animal ta protect her. It was… beautiful. The things humans do fer each other. 'E was a great man, our dad – Shizzy's so much like him at times. 'E wasn't older than thirteen when it happened, but 'e ran like 'e had Satan an' all his sons at his heels ta help dad protect mom, an' I ran after 'im… Mom made it, dad didn't. That's when Shizzy got 'is scar." Her smile grew a little warmer, her gaze a little closer in time. "'E's grown a lot since then, in every way. That khakkhara 'e's got used ta be twice as long as 'e was. It was dad's."

Shiro followed her gaze, past the lake and into his own memories.

"Your dad was awesome."

"He was."

"Your mom, too."

"Yeah." Kasumi smiled into her bento, pushing tamagoyaki out of the way in favour of some maitake mushroom. "Shizzy told me ye're alone", she began softly. "No parents, no siblings. How would ya feel 'bout getting adopted?"

By her and Shizuku? He'd never even thought about it – mostly because he wasn't-

"Nothin' with papers an' crap: just havin' someplace ta call yer own", she interrupted his silence. "Family's where ye feel ye belong; where ye' heart is. So…?"

Adopted. Shiro tried his best not to show he'd been hit in the gut by a millstone, and dragged down to the bottom of the ocean by another. He should've known, really. He was seven years younger, a child by comparison; Kasumi didn't see any prospective husband in him, only a second little brother to tease and care for. It was his own damn imagination that had tricked him into believing he-

A small, warm hand laid itself over his on the trunk and effectively short-circuited any thought he had.

"…or maybe ye were thinking 'family' in some other way?"

The tiny, bright light of hope in her eyes lit Shiro's insides like a bonfire, tied his tongue to his palate, and left him an absolute grinning idiot.

* * *

On the way back through town they walked hand in hand, glowing with that special light that comes from two young hearts beating together. Shiro almost got hit by the horse carriage again, but that was okay. He'd forgotten his tie over by the lake, but that was okay. He had a spare, and everything was okay, because Kasumi loved him.

It's a powerful thing, love. It twists one's head worse than does a demon, and weaves illusions stronger than any kitsune's work. One could say it's human magic, worked on another human and binding the two together in a world of their own where everything is perfect. …well, almost everything.

"So what are ye planning ta retaliate with? Ye know, fer this?" Kasumi stretched up on the balls of her feet to pull a strand of his bubblegum pink hair.

"I haven't thought of anything yet", he admitted. "Any ideas?"

"Hoo~ plotting tagether now, hm?" That impish gleam crept into her eyes, the one he loved so much. "Well well~ I don't know what weak spots te aim for, so could ye give me a quick break-down o' the enemy forces…?"

"Alright…" Shiro brought up his hand to count off the things he knew. "He loves manga and anime – all kinds of it. He's a neat freak and abhors bacteria. He's ticklish."

"He's _ticklish?_ " she laughed incredulously. "How d'ya even know that?"

"Long story best left untold", he replied. "He's a disaster in the kitchen. He's got more plushies than a ten-year-old girl. He absolutely sucks at drawing, and gets insulted if you point that out. He loves sweets and doesn't take well to holy water in his tea. He-"

"Oi, Fuji." Kasumi raised their joined hands and pointed. "I think I've found yer retaliation."

"You're a devil, Kasumi." Shiro snickered, grin widening with each potential application that lit up in his mind. Yes, that would be perfect. "Have you got a tissue paper I can borrow?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:**
> 
> **Fuji** means Wisteria with the kanji used in Shiro's surname.  
>  **Twinkle-toes** – because Toph Beifong is awesome.


	38. Settling things

Exams… were over.

It took a while before Shiro had disabled the automatic "which subject should I study next?" reflex that had divided his consciousness into a set schedule: a process that gave him the strangest feeling of relaxing a tensed muscle after exercise, but mentally.

His desk needed cleaning: of course, the first thought that formed in his relaxed brain was a silly one. The desk glowered at him from underneath the eraser shreddings and the toppled paper-towers and declared that no, it was not a silly thought. It really did need cleaning.

* * *

There is an intimate though often overlooked connection between the world outside and the world inside. Most people who embark on the task of cleaning their desks will at some point wonder if the desk isn't just a metaphor, and if it might be the disorganisation in their minds that translates its needs into manageable forms. Tangible problems are more easily handled than the winding spiral knots of thought, after all: and if you're lucky, the metaphor might be the mirror you needed to view your thoughts from a different perspective.

It could be so, of course: the subconscious is a clever trickster in getting its own way. It could also merely be that the desk needed to be tidied.

* * *

When Shiro was done, and the fresh smell of soap lay spread out on the desk, he felt lighter at heart. Things were going the right direction now. Knots were finally loosening, strings were finally aligning – and no matter how he squinted for shadows, the future ahead seemed bright and promising.

Drawing a deep breath of lemon and pine, he left the room to see if he could chase away the one remaining shadow.

* * *

True to his promise the other day, Shiro stopped at the white double doors and knocked.

"Can I come in, or are you 'busy'?"

"As a matter of fact I am", Mephisto's voice sounded from within the office. "Would you be so kind and wait?"

"Sure, take your time."

He assumed Mephisto would get the hint, even if he wasn't likely to entertain any succubi during office hours. It was odd for him to have a visitor now, though. The Academy had become virtually void of staff, all teachers having retired into crammed offices to correct exams. Who could have anything to discuss with the headmaster now?

Shiro was practicing manual dexterity with one of his cigarettes when the door handle turned from inside. The cigarette got tucked behind his ear, and he pushed away from the wall he'd been leaning against – and missed a step when he saw who had been to see Mephisto.

Many things happen when you suddenly have time on your hands; when the tunnel-visioned focus releases its grip and all the things it blocked out flow back into your consciousness. Desks that need cleaning, for example. Thoughts that need organising. Changes that have occurred in the absence of your notice.

Saburota had been dispatched to the periphery of Shiro's awareness for the past weeks, like a piece of furniture. He had either sat by the desk writing reports, or been away on missions that would subsequently place him back at the desk with more reports. If they had exchanged any words, Shiro hadn't had the storage space or the time to archive them in memory.

Now Saburota came sharply into focus as he passed Shiro by on his way out. Rapid change, slow change – you'll notice them both sooner or later. When you have the time to look for them.

Saburota had been smiling. For lack of better word.

Shiro turned his head to look at the straight, uniformed back disappearing down the corridor. It looked like it would hurt to be that perfectly… perfect. And that smile...

"What was he doing here?" he asked, not bothering to turn his head towards the one he directed the question at. Mephisto's big ears caught everything.

"He came looking for enlightenment regarding the nature of his cousin's fate in Deep Keep. A most committed young man", he replied smoothly from behind the big desk before the high windows. "Although a sharp mind should watch carefully what it commits itself to."

Mephisto had seen it too, then: the murky water beneath the sheet of polished ice.

"What did you tell him?" Shiro grabbed the backrest of a striped armchair as he walked and dragged the heavy piece of furn- Heh, no. It wasn't heavy. Not anymore. When he swivelled it around to set it in front of Mephisto's desk, he tried lifting it as he did: the old-fashioned armchair yielded without resistance. " _Would you look at that? With only one hand._ "

"A piece of wordsmithing of suitable design", he replied with a furtive smile, and a small voice in the back of Shiro's mind told him that Mephisto enjoyed toying with Saburota as much as Shiro himself had, that time when he'd been on cigarette withdrawal. The difference was that Mephisto didn't have any conscience that told him to stop. "I assume you had a good read?"

"Yup; so if you could lend me the next one…?" Shiro had barely placed the manga magazine on the desk before the next issue poofed into existence on top of it. "Thanks. And go easy on Saburota-senpai, would you?" Because _someone_ had to be his conscience. "He wasn't okay before, he's even less okay after his cousin was killed with no killer to be found." He put the magazine down in his lap and slouched back in the chair to make it somewhat more comfortable.

"Such heart-warming concern for your colleagues, Shiro – gratuitous as it is. I may not be able to lessen the burden on Todo-kun's mind, but I certainly won't increase it", he ensured and spread his hands with a jovial look of innocence. "As Branch Director, my topmost priority is the welfare of my employees~"

…sometimes, policy and scheme can fill the same function as conscience, Shiro supposed. Mephisto did have a logical way of thinking, even if he seemed to make an effort to hide it, and there was logic to keeping his employees safe and sound. Cogs in the machinery tend to work better if they're not broken.

"You're more than a little warped, but that's nothing new", he stated lightly. "I dropped by 'cause I had an unusually informative chat with Kita-san the other day. The Yaonaru don't like you much, apparently."

"I find that my presence in exorcist circles is tolerated more often than appreciated." That they had no choice but to tolerate him put a smug, content undertone in his bouncing voice.

…Shiro couldn't explain it – which was all and well, because he never could. Not when he felt that… that instinct. Different things triggered it, and the only thing he'd learnt was to recognise the feeling when it came. Meditating as Sen had shown had made him a little more observant of it, which in turn allowed him to decide whether to pull the brake or go along with the impulse. This time, he chose to follow.

"And yet tolerance seems too kind a word when spite is spoken snidely. It was hardly crude coincidence when your school was wrought where worlds entwine."

"I do not court coincidence if I can have a say; to plan ahead and strategise, that's the demon way." Mephisto hadn't expected that kind of reply, but picked up instantly in his own smooth cadence.

"To what end would you strategize, if that was your design? The Yaonaru don't seem to think your intentions are benign." Ngh, it didn't sound as good as when Mephisto did it…

"Benign's a sell-sword word, dependent on who speaks it; a reply would cut with forking edge whoever he that seeks it", he returned with ease, crossing his arms with an amused glint in the green eyes.

" _He really is the deity of words and wit._ " He made it sound so easy, as if it just poured out of his mouth like a stream of silver. "Tie that tongue of silver still and speak less like a serpent; I seek the cause this school was built, and…" Fuck: how do you rhyme on serpent? "…why you gather artefacts so fervent-ly."

No, Shiro couldn't explain that instinct. It was like hearing music in the distance and tapping the rhythm unawares. Some part of his brain reacted to it, couldn't reproduce it, and left him with an impulse to join a dance he didn't know the steps of.

"A serpent like myself most esteemed his tongue doth hold, and shouldn't need enlighten you; the taste of metal's cold. Be it silence gilt or speech of supple silver that grievance to you dealt – should you like it otherwise, that serpent's tongue", he purred softly, "the heat of passion might just make it smelt~"

…yeah, didn't need that bedroom look on his face to know what kind of reply he was fishing for.

"I surrender", Shiro smiled and rubbed his fingers over his forehead, as if easing an itch on the inside of his skull. "I can't coordinate brain and mouth well enough to answer that."

"No need to coordinate if you only use one of them~" he suggested with a bright grin.

"What kind of principal are you, discouraging students from learning? I'll keep talking till I can coordinate", he smiled amiably as he turned the dialogue around. "About the Yaonaru: what's the deal with building the Academy at that weak spot?"

Apparently, he should figure that out on his own: the flirty look was gone in an instant, and Mephisto instead tipped his head to the side and told him with his non-existent eyebrows to _think_. …and while it was pedagogic and all to be encouraged to think for yourself, a push in the right direction would help the process.

"It's a weak spot in Assiah's defence: what does one do with weak spots in the defence, Shiro…?"

"You fortify them?"

"Not so complicated, was it? You build guard towers and man them with capable guards." He folded his arms outwards elegantly, indicating the Academy around them. "And when your stronghold gains reputation for its high standards, it becomes an attractive location to store all manner of things that cause trouble for less fortified keeps."

It sounded reasonable, which counted for nothing since Mephisto could make anything sound reasonable. The only thing he had de facto said was that this was the explanation Shiro would have to live with.

"So all that stuff is more of an excuse for the Yaonaru to dislike you: and the real reason they do is that when you came here, the Order replaced them as the most influential exorcists in the country?"

"Replaced? Such a mundane term; clearly, you don't understand the _art_ of politics." Oh yes, Mephisto and art… "Politics is war, with words for weapons to conquer the hearts and wallets of the battleground that is the people; war waged with espionage and blackwash and promises made to be broken", he declaimed passionately, looking for all the world like he was conducting an orchestra in the process. "A spectacular cloak-and-dagger theatre of deceitful friendliness and polished masks; a coliseum where liars and thieves compete to see who's most apt at his profession!" Any moment, Shiro expected him to mount the desk to the sound of bronze trumpets, with the Japanese flag billowing dramatically in the background.

" _And some of Oscar de Jarjayes' sparkles for good measure_ ", he grinned to himself. Oh yes, that made a very compelling picture.

"It was many years ago that this noble thief stole the title from the Yaonarus, but an undefeated champion seldom sees his laurels taken without grudge." A gilded wreath of leaves popped into existence around his head, and sparkled at least a little bit in the lamplight. "Dear Roma, with all your intrigues and poisoned schemes; if you could see what has become of you today…" he sighed deeply, and skewered a sakura mochi with a flourish of his wrist. "Japan isn't bad, but it lacks that certain dedication to backstabbing that made politics in ancient Rome so exciting."

"I mourn your loss", Shiro said as sincerely as his grin would allow. "So you gave the honour of guardianship of Deep Keep to the Todos, just to piss the Yaonaru off even more?" Childish favouritism and bullying on the grown-ups' playground? Nothing he would put past Mephisto.

"It was a natural course of action, to accentuate our disagreement."

Nope, wouldn't put that past Mephisto.

"Fine as a fish in water in the world of politics, I hear", Shiro snickered. "But what of this artefact they've got? I understand why they'd hate to give it over to their 'enemy' – both of their enemies – but is it something they actually have any use for, or they're just being stubborn for the hell of it…?"

"They have no use for it whatsoever", Mephisto chuckled, and twirled the toothpick between his fingers with a smile. "Demon body parts can be used for decoration at best, although I can think of few humans who would find that aesthetically pleasing. The artefact does, however, give them something to set them apart from other exorcists, and the Yaonaru have always taken great care to set themselves apart from other exorcists." His chuckles grew more intense, until they shook his skinny frame like an earthquake. "In all honesty, I selected the Todos to establish a lineage family that could take my place as the target of their spite – I could never have predicted how well that seed would grow. Fufufufu rivalry that's left to germinate over generation after generation builds flavour like stored wine~"

…and today, neither Yaonarus nor Todos were aware that they had been pitted against each other on purpose, like roosters in a cockfight, long before they were born: meat-shields and entertainment for the game master. Shiro could see the humour in it, but more than that he felt the cold chill that comes with having a conscience. That was one very, _very_ good motivation not to get anywhere near Mephisto's large-scale games.

"Why is this spot so vulnerable, then?" Shiro asked, plucking down the cigarette that had begun tipping dangerously behind his ear. "Is _that_ just coincidence, or is there a reason?"

Mephisto levelled a heavy-lidded, unblinking gaze at Shiro. So striking, that vibrant green…

"Whether coincidence or design is behind it, the location of this weak spot is known in Gehenna, too." If it was his words that came slower, or if he actually slowed time as he spoke… Impossible to tell. "There is a stronghold built under it there as well: a palace, more precisely."

Involuntarily, Shiro's jaw clenched tighter.

"If father ever gains a way of opening a gate to Assiah, he will open it here. I let him think my guard tower is a reception hall, and gather as many artefacts as I can to have means of stalling him if a gate does open." Shiro sat stock still, absorbing every word. It was so rare to see Mephisto this- "Oh, and there's an anime special airing on Saturday: care to watch it?" –this lit up with expectation like a kid on Christmas Eve.

The brief tension poured out of Shiro as something between a huff and a laugh. Really. Demons: turning on a hairpin.

"I can't, I'll be spending the day with Kasu-chan and Shizu-san before they leave town", Shiro smiled. "And what's that supposed to be? Puppy-eyes?"

Mephisto's face had assumed something that looked a little like moping, a little like pleading, and a little like neither expression could be pulled off by a centuries old demon.

"If I want to do puppy-eyes, I turn into a puppy." Yep, he was moping. "These are when-will-it-be-my-turn-to-have-fun-on-summer-holidays-eyes."

"Don't you ha-" Shiro suddenly felt stupid. It wasn't that unusual an occurrence, but it was a new kind of situation with a new kind of stupid: Mephisto's pouty glare was a sample of when-will-it-be-my-turn-to-have-fun-on-summer-holidays- _with_ - _you_ -eyes. "Well… If you give me a day off from the janitor job we can go to Mepphy Land?" And suddenly Christmas wasn't cancelled anymore. "I can always pop in after work and play arcade games, though I'm _really_ rusty by now, so you can pretty much expect to win." Shiro found himself grinning and shaking his head before he knew it. "And right now I can't convince myself to believe you're Satan's son."

Not when the green eyes were shrunken down to two arcs of pure joy, and the wide grin sparkled like a toothpaste advertisement.

"Too adorable…?"

"Too adorable", Shiro agreed with a smile of his own. "Anyhow, I-" The trouser pocket was empty when he patted it. Excellent. "Where does stuff go when you poof it away, the way you always do with my lighter?" he asked, rolling his unlit cigarette between thumb and forefinger.

"That depends." He gestured with his toothpick like a pointer. "If it's a teacup, I put it on the kitchen counter; if it's a magical object I don't want lying around, I store it in a pocket dimension." The wooden tip pointed at Shiro. "Your lighter I put in my scarf drawer."

"Oh. I see." Shiro could no longer keep the innocent act together. "Well, in that case", he put the cigarette between his smiling lips and fished out the supposedly missing lighter form his shirt pocket, "I think I'd best be going."

_Priceless_ , Mephisto's face when he lit the cigarette…!

"See you later." Shiro flashed his best rascal-grin as he rose, magazine in hand, and made for the door. " _Not too fast, not too slow…_ " He heard the muffled pop when Mephisto summoned the object he had poofed out of Shiro's trouser pocket earlier. " _Okay, maybe a little faster._ " He leapt the remaining steps to the door, pulled it open and got out just in time to hea-

"SHIROOOOOO!"

His voice cracked like a shrill gunshot, and set Shiro off sprinting down the corridor, sliding over the squeaking clean marble as he turned the corner, leaping down the stairs three steps at a time, and laughing the way you do when you've just planted a clump of horseshit in your principal's scarf drawer.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:**
> 
> **Victorious gladiators** were rewarded with laurels, among other things.
> 
> **Spoken word battles** , of the kind Shiro and Mephisto engage in here, have a long history. The Vikings, in the 5th to 16th century, engaged in something called **flyting** , which was a spoken word battle where you aimed to insult your opponent in verse as cleverly as possible. There is an 800 years old scripture titled _Loki's flyting_. That's all I'm saying. ;P
> 
> **Palace?** – Not that I know, but if you look through ch 39 of the manga, there is one frame (shortly after Rin's been knocked through a wall by Amaimon) where you see the silhouette of Gehenna's equivalent of True Cross Academy in the background. What struck me when I read is that it looks like windows on that silhouette. That may of course owe to the less-than-satisfying format of reading on a computer screen, but... oh well. I don't think Mephisto chose that spot for the Academy on a whim. And just the fact that there is something there makes my eyebrows go up. I can't really imagine that Mephisto first built the Academy in Assiah, and then there spontaneously pops up a corresponding mountain in Gehenna to mirror it. That sounds pretty dumb. x') I do have a theory for this, as incredible as it is, so if you stick around this fic long enough you will find out what _I_ think this palace/mountain/fortress is, although I seriously doubt Kato's idea is the same as mine.


	39. In vino veritas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "In wine there is truth."

Quite a few students had asked him if he was locked out, and they had all received a negative response: no, Shiro's key was in his pocket, thank you very much. Some had politely inquired if Saburota had wanted some privacy with his girlfriend, and before Shiro could reply to that they had continued down the corridor, laughing. A few curious idiots had asked if he stood in the corridor because the poltergeist from White Night had come back to his room, and they had been sent away by death glares that forbade any further questions on the subject.

The idiots were half right, though. Shiro could distinctly sense Mephisto's presence behind the door, and a qualified guess was that this had something to do with scarves and horseshit.

What Mephisto had prepared in there was another question: one that Shiro felt he'd be better off not knowing the answer to. He could just walk away and come back later, that was one option; hopefully, Mephisto would find it too boring to wait, and abandon his plan. On the other hand, he could probably leave a trap behind if he so wished. And Shiro was almost out of cigarettes, and both his wallet and a new carton were inside his room… Tch, and even if he dodged the bullet this time, Mephisto wouldn't give up until proper revenge had been dealt. He would chase him down no matter how-

A self-ironic smile stretched Shiro's lips. Chase him down? Wouldn't be much of a chase, would it? He knew Mephisto was in there, and he was pretty sure Mephisto was able to tell he was standing outside. He had raced the demon down that dorm corridor once already, and he knew which one of them was the faster.

" _Just take it like a man._ " Shiro drew in a breath, and turned the han-

*poof*

Whatever he had expected, it wasn't the shower of confetti, glitter, and serpentines bouncing off his head. Amidst it all stood Mephisto with a beaming grin and arms spread wide.

"Congratulations on passing _all_ of your exams!" Judging from Mephisto's enthusiasm, he himself was the one who had just passed all exams.

"Thanks." When the initial shock had passed, Shiro couldn't help but pull a smile. Enthusiasm is infectious, sure, but in this specific case it was rather a matter of… Mephisto acting his looks. "You look like you enjoy it more than I do", he added, dislodging a red and yellow serpentine from his glasses frame.

"Don't be such a killjoy, Shiro!" he chirped enthusiastically. "Birthdays may lack significance in your dull view of life but surely this is an achievement sensible enough to celebrate?" He offered a courtly bow with one hand on his chest and the other behind his back. "Supper is on me~"

Mephisto paid? That meant it was either a trap, or… Uh, was there any other possibility?

"Which means 'supper' is either instant ramen or monja." Mephisto had a very peculiar diet, for a multi-millionaire - especially considering that he had a chef that could cook virtually anything. But, it's the luxury of the rich that they can be as quirky as they wish.

"For an occasion like this?" Thin eyebrows rose in theatrical astonishment. "Tsk tsk, who do you take me for, Shiro? No Esquire has ever passed exams for all classes at once, in his first try! This calls for something _special._ "

…and with a secretive smile he left it hanging there: a grand, mysterious Pandora's box waiting to unleash dream or dread. Something _special_. Shiro pondered his options, nipping at the tip of his tongue as he did. Mephisto was up to something: the question was what. Curiosity killed the cat, curiosity killed the cat, curiosity ki-

"Anything that isn't a gay bar is fine."

Cats can't subdue curiosity: that's why they have nine lives.

"Gay bar? Of course not." He set his arms akimbo with a look of How Could You Even Conceive Of Such An Idea? "That would be highly inappropriate for a headmaster."

"M-hm: and letting a student get some lollipop love from a succubus isn't?" he returned, quirking an eyebrow at Mephisto as he walked past him and dropped his satchel by his bed.

"That files as extracurricular activity."

Shiro barked out a hearty laughter, the kind that blossoms from the very bottom of one's stomach and rocks the whole body with mirth. Extrecurricular activity?

"I think you just outdid yourself, my dear wordsmith!" Shiro got a hold of himself slowly, with the occasional guffawing noise bubbling out of his mouth. "Extracurricular activity - man, that they even let you run a school..."

"The word is ever mightier than the sword", the demon smirked. "While on the subject, she recommended you to cut back on the cigarettes and eat more fruit." Seeing Shiro's nonplussed expression, Mephisto was kind enough to elaborate: "To improve your taste."

…and try as it may, Shiro's brain could not fool him into thinking she had meant his taste in clothes or hairstyle. Feeling the heat rise in his cheeks, he pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes.

"Can we go to that dining place now, please?" he mumbled.

"The subject whet your appetite…?" There was a very thin coating of politeness to that question, and it did nothing to hide Mephisto's innuendos.

"No, I just hope you're well-bred enough not to talk with your mouth full. Of food." Sadly, the safeguard only served to give away what he had been thinking: and Mephisto's insinuating grin said that he, too, knew what his student had been thinking. "Oh, we're just getting started", Shiro sighed, massaging his eyelids. "You're gonna cough blood from laughing before this evening's over, I'm telling you; I'm so wasted after exams I could get up in the morning and forget my head on the pillow."

"Sounds promising~" Mephisto poofed himself into a casual lavender yukata with white stars, and summoned the ring of master keys into his hand. "I do like the prospect of enjoying your mouth all day long", he smiled, and used the dorm room door to open another door miles and miles away.

"I hear I'm gonna get plenty of help with the Freudian slips, too", Shiro chortled, ran a hand through his pink hair and followed him through.

* * *

They emerged up a short flight of stairs, onto stone-paved floor inlaid with a large compass rose. To the left opened a bustling street, with an austere, dark- wooded Shinto shrine awkwardly crammed in between bright shop windows and brazen logotypes. To the right a shopping arcade stretched into endlessness, with busy people reflecting in polished floors, and conches with artificial cherry blossom twigs on walls that met in a glass arc above. It was warmer, somehow. And it didn't look like anything in True Cross Town. Shiro was about to ask where they were when the sign above saved him from looking like an idiot: Teramachi.

"We're in Kyoto…? I didn't know the Order had affiliates in Kyoto."

"It doesn't, save a small field office mainly for monitoring." Mephisto pointed a horrible Hello Kitty-patterned fan at an assembly of signs on the wall behind them, where organisations and shops that resided in the building were listed.

_Esquire Club_

_since 1964_

"Kyoto is a city of respectable age, a stronghold of culture and tradition", he continued. "Exorcism here has always been managed by independent Japanese institutions, and quite efficiently so: the final battle against the Impure King was fought by Fukaku in the mountains here. A most spectacular showdown, that was." Mephisto twirled the fan between his fingers in remembered delight, and set a leisurely course straight ahead, to the opposite side of the shopping arcade. "The main body of exorcists in present-day Kyoto are descendants of the sect he founded – very apt at what they do, but tied as tightly to their traditions as the Vatican is to its own. Tradition is a solitary species, with profound dislike for competition; thus, no affiliates of the Order of the True Cross in Kyoto."

"But wouldn't they-" Shiro realised where they were headed, and though his English was something he'd use exclusively under death threat, he could read the name on the blue awning above the door. "I thought I'd made myself clear on the gay bars?"

"You made yourself perfectly clear, and this is an ordinary restaurant: a very hospitable such, with delicious food and reasonable prices."

 _Mr. Young Men_ had just recently opened, and, despite the name, it was indeed an ordinary restaurant. They were politely greeted by an ageing lady with a big birthmark above one eyebrow, who directed them to a vacant table by the window that faced the arcade. It was a small yet homely place, with lamps shaped like seashells on the walls, and tissue paper printed with the restaurant name on each table. A handful of other guests were already seated, engaged in conversation over steaming yakisoba, or… monja.

"Sumimasen; will you be translating the menu for your friend, or would you require help?" Shiro was asked by a frail little waitress, who wore a polite smile to go with her worried eyes.

"No need to worry, milady: I'm fluent in Japanese", Mephisto said, and did something Shiro didn't quite catch. He smiled, but not his usual smirk. And something with his eyes, too. And maybe something different with his voice. The combined effect caused the waitress' face to light up like a pink glow worm, and she hurriedly cast her eyes down, left them the menus, and scurried back to the rest of the staff behind the counter.

"I saw that – though I'm not sure what 'that' was", Shiro murmured over the table. "What did you do?"

Mephisto awarded him his usual, aggravatingly self-satisfied smile as he flipped open the menu.

"It's a noble art, to set a human heart aflutter with a single glance – too bad I can't make use of it, with the Vatican's collar around my neck. Hmm, what shall I have instead…?" His eyes scanned the menu idly, while his right hand twirled the shorter side of the fringe around its index finger. "Young men would be nice… maybe campus men…"

 _Mr. Young Men_ was a theme restaurant, which wasn't quite as bad as a gay bar but close enough. And while Shiro would have preferred yakisoba, he simply couldn't bring himself to order it after Mephisto had pondered his choices aloud in that _insinuating_ tone. Especially not since Shiro had been thinking of ordering beef yakisoba - or, as the menu called it, _Rich men_. No, he ordered something else instead.

"So, in the end, we _are_ having monja."

"It's not monjayaki: it's okonomiyaki", Mephisto corrected. Something _special_ , huh...?

"Which is exactly the same thing", Shiro pointed out, slicing himself some onion and beef jerky pancake with a metal spatula. "It's just the tradition of the Kansai region that has a problem with the tradition of the rest of Japan and uses another name for it."

"You shouldn't speak ill of the tradition whose home you're guest in, Shiro."

"You mean you never do, Sir I-could-use-the-arcades-in-Saint-Peter's-basilica-as-walk-in-wardrobes…?"

* * *

They both had second helpings of monj- of okonomiyaki, and after they had finished those they spent a fair while just talking. One could spend _weeks_ just talking with Mephisto. Years, probably. Not only did he know something about everything, but he had lived in times when conversation had been elevated to art. Tch, he'd been _Hermes_ , for god's sake: the _inventor_ of the art of speech and oration. He may have the drawing skill of a three-year-old, but his skill in wielding words was on par with Michelangelo's skill at wielding a brush. And above all, Hermes had been a trickster that used his talents for fun.

"Can you take us _anywhere_ in True Cross Town?" Shiro asked when Mephisto paid for the meal. He'd had in Idea, of the kind that curled one's nerves into yarns of expectation, and the more he thought about it the better it seemed. "I think I know a place you'll like."

*poof*

Old memories, in every corner and vacant land lot. They were far down on the lowest levels of True Cross Town, where higher tiers of buildings kept the streets in perpetual twilight. Shiro had often gone there when he was younger – on errands, one might add for the sake of his good reputation.

Out of the mud, the lotus grows towards the light and blooms, like a mind striving for enlightenment – pretty way of putting it, no? A prime example of what Mephisto labelled "euphemism". Shiro had spent more time in the mud than on the glossy surface of True Cross Town: a town whose majestic pinnacles and arcs strove skywards on the tattered shoulders of Old True Cross Town – or Creek's End in street vernacular. Creek's End was where all trash washed up eventually; Creek's End was where walls sagged drunkenly on each other to support their weight, striped an unhealthy green-grey by neglect in daylight that was provided by street lamps.

Shiro took the lead at leisurely pace, walking through neon lit memories from signs with suggestive names such as _Lips_ and _Slave_. Make no mistake, Creek's End had good and bad areas, too. This was a district that saw plenty of visitors from upper True Cross Town: like Mephisto, it presented a respectable façade by day and transformed into an amusement park of sin at night.

He took care not to bump into anyone as he walked, knowing that in _this_ jungle he was no lion, but a meerkat that would lose its neck if he stuck it out too far. Well, maybe not with the King of Time in tow. Shiro steered them towards an entrance with a chandelier imitation that looked like a giant jellyfish, without the lights and glitter many other places advertised: the tall, muscular guard at the door didn't do lights and glitter. It was a fancy place, though. Too fancy for Shiro to have gone to, even if he was allowed in.

"You dabble in illegal gambling?"

…and apparently, Shiro wasn't the only one who knew his way around True Cross Town's decadent districts.

"Pff, as if I'd have spare money to waste on gambling, with the fees your school charges! No – but do the right favours for the right people and 'poof!'" Shiro snapped his fingers. "Doors open." He cocked an eyebrow and shot Mephisto a wolfish grin. "Magic, you know?"

He didn't miss the amused smile that tugged Mephisto's lips as he led the way over to the tattooed doorkeeper, presented his ID, and was permitted to bring his gaijin friend in.

Spaces that aren't supposed to exist in the first place develop a certain atmosphere about them. At first, they're empty: uninhabited Possibilities that stand naked, nervously waiting for a purpose to fill their vacant flats and murky basements. Then purpose moves in, and brings people with it; or is it the people that bring the purpose…? Regardless, it's the people that bring the atmosphere. It's the people that bring with them the awareness that the place is forbidden, and paint the walls with their suppressed fears of being found. Eventually, it has soaked into the structure to the point you feel it the moment you enter: a tiptoeing, static convulsion, born from the knowledge that, any minute, this outlawed nook of the world could be discovered and destroyed, and the people discovered there destroyed with it.

It wouldn't be, though. Gambling pits like this one were protected by silent agreements passed in envelopes under official desks, and among the well-dressed men around the tables were no doubt both policemen and politicians. The basement had been furnished to fit the company, with pipes and cables concealed behind lavish painted screens and mirror walls. Glamorous. Bending laws and making it glamorous: oh yes, Mephisto would like it there.

Dark, varnished gambling tables hovered in pools of light from low-hung lamps: little islands shrouded in cigarette smoke of finer brand than what Shiro was used to. Men of all ages and social status gathered together to cheer or groan at the clatter of dice, the muffled flipping of cards, or the swift-swept clicks of mahjong tiles. The noises blended in discretely with the melodies of ABBA's latest hits, which came pouring from speakers on a polished bar counter that hugged tapestries of glistening glass bottles to itself in the far corner. Breathtaking women in scant clothing filed back and forth from it with drinks, smiled their prettiest smiles and kept the gamblers company.

There was a certain atmosphere about the place, yes: a pungent blend of forbidden adventure, danger, daring, and delight.

"Come now: am I gonna have to tempt a demon to gamble?" Surprisingly, Mephisto seemed to require a bit of encouragement, and Shiro served it up with his absolute cheekiest grin. "You know what the Court at Headquarters would say of that."

"Charge you for 'inappropriate corruption of demon' you mean?" Mephisto sniggered merrily. "What a splendid role model you make, Shiro; the exorcist that tempts demons into sinning."

"Well, you know: one of my many extracurricular activites~"

Shiro could only imagine how they looked: one European rake in purple yukata, and one teenaged Japanese with bubblegum pink hair; laughing together like idiots. Heh, but looks are deceptive. Wonder what people would say, if they knew the two newcomers were the King of Time and one of the most promising exorcist students in Japan…?

* * *

_Klondike_ was basically like playing poker, but with dice. It was a game the Americans had brought with them during the occupation, and left behind along with other souvenirs; such as a few hundred half-American bastard children. Officials and private persons alike agreed to pretend that those children didn't exist – much like they agreed to ignore the existence of gambling pits.

 _Klondike_ was played so that the banker – in their case a man with sharp eyes and teeth like a palisade of smoke-stained sotoba – rolled five dice, and the players then took turns rolling five other dice to beat the banker's combination. You could bet either 'win', which meant you aimed to roll higher than the bank, or 'lose', which meant you aimed to roll lower; or 'beat two aces', which meant you would have to pull off rolling at least two pairs.

Didn't sound that difficult, did it?

"I thought you liked games of chance?" Shiro asked, watching with fascination as Mephisto's ears dipped lower by the minute.

"This isn't Chance", he said irritably. "This is Hazard, her drunk cousin."

The bank had rolled one of the lowest possible combinations, and Mephisto had bet 'win': and for the sixth time in a row, he'd rolled the same number as the bank, which meant the bank won. The other players around the table were highly amazed – not to mention amused – by this; and any moment now, the amassed improbabilities would reach critical concentration and open up a black hole that swallowed Assiah.

"Do you know why they say one can have 'the devil's own luck'?" Mephisto muttered under his breath when the next man rolled. "Because that's what it is. Demons can't make use of luck themselves, only sell it off to humans."

He was being baited, and Mephisto wasn't even bothering to hide it. He knew what directions Shiro's mind would start ticking with those words, and Shiro knew that he knew, and knew he should make an effort _not_ to fall for demons' temptations... And yet, the night was young and the music good, the clatter of dice and mahjong tiles drew cheers and groans into the smoky air, and Shiro was nineteen years old and invincible.

"Then throw some luck my way and I'll play for you", he offered, muffling his words behind his hand as he pretended to scratch nonexistent beard. "We split the money at the end of the game. What do you say?"

"I say the game is on. What will you give me in return?"

Shiro glanced up at the tall demon one extra time. Nope, he was serious. When it came to money, he was always serious.

"You get half the money: just how greedy are you?"

"Very, but that's not the point. Demons deal in countless currencies, but man-made money isn't one of them."

Shiro tilted his head to the side.

"That's weird."

"That's fair", the demon corrected in pleasant tones. "Rich or poor, every soul can afford to deal with us."

"Right…" Shiro let his gaze wander with his thoughts, as if a solution was hidden somewhere in the room. Or, somewhere in the far corner, among the glistening bottles and glasses…? "Drinks on me afterwards – is that acceptable currency?"

"You're underage, Shiro."

"And I'm in an illegal gambling pit."

"Valid point: deal."

The devil's own luck, indeed. Shiro had to discreetly ask Mephisto to give him at least a few bad rolls, for the banker's stiff sotoba-smile was becoming more and more reminiscent of a grave-marker. As good as it felt to watch yen notes build up in piles, he would like to walk out of the gambling pit with all his fingers attached.

* * *

"Kampaaaai!" They raised their saké cups again, and Shiro could swear the only reason Mephisto didn't spill his drink all over himself was that he controlled space.

As the number of emptied flasks on the polished wooden counter grew higher, so did their laughter. Mephisto proved to have a sensationally poor tolerance for liquor, and it wasn't long before the alcohol had added a fine dusting of pink to his cheeks, and dimmed his green eyes from clear absinthe to dark spruce. It also made him prone to severe fits of giggling, which infallibly set Shiro off laughing as it was the funniest thing he had ever seen.

"Really, you hold your liquor like a girl", he snickered. "Act like one, too."

At this, Mephisto pulled a sceptical face.

"Flirting with the bartender doesn't make me a girl, Shiro."

"No; that makes you promiscuous, and him discomforted. _This_ ", he mimicked Mephisto's way of adjusting a tress of hair with an overly effeminate motion, "makes you a girl."

The affronted look grew more prominent, as did the bartender's discomfort.

"I don't do that", Mephisto dismissed delicately.

"Oh yes you do."

Shiro always had his best ideas when he was tired or tipsy: at the moment he was both, and he had an absolutely brilliant idea.

He licked his finger and coiled a strand of hair on top of his head around it, straightened his back and crossed his legs – no chance in hell that hair stayed curled, but it's the effort that counts. He then softened his voice and did a, in his mind, perfect imitation of Mephisto's cadence:

"Why, how could you ever claim that _I_ ", he puffed up his chest against his splayed fingers, "would deign to do something so mundane? Clearly, you don't understand the _art_ of flipping one's hair." He put all his heart into making his wrist-flick as faggish as it looked when Mephisto did it. "It should be quick and quaint like the flicking of a wagtail's feathers, yet smooth and soft like a pure maiden's first velvet kiss on a cream-bathed baby butt." Big, flourishing gestures; like he wasn't trying to swat away flies but rather caress their backs gently. "Performed correctly, this ancient art has the power to conquer kingdoms and enslave emperors, steal the tongues of men and elevate the user into exceptional good-lookingness! It is what separates the prince from the pauper and the snob from the salary man; and I, His Royal Foppishness, is a masehehehe a master of- of the noble art…!" Shiro couldn't keep it together any longer and surrendered himself to idiotic laughter.

That said, he wasn't the only one.

"Kyahahahahahaaaahahahhaaaa…!" His royal foppishness lay next to him, flattened over the bar counter in hiccupping convulsions with his face buried in his arm. Shiro's impersonation must've looked absolutely ridiculous – and pretty accurate. "You'll- you'll have to t-ehehehihiiihihi teach me the proper art of flipping one's hair someday…! Nhnheheheeheehe-heeh-heeh… eheh the gauntlet's thrown, then, fufufufu lend me those…"

Deft fingers plucked off Shiro's glasses and transferred them, with some difficulty between the string and the curl, to Mephisto's nose. He let his legs fall apart sloppily and slouched against the counter on one elbow - and for the final touch, he ran his fingers through his hair a couple of times to get it properly mussed up.

"Oi, what's with that face?" And that was a _pitch-perfect_ intonation, oh god, oh god…! "Having pervy thoughts about me again, I bet. Lecherous old goat…" he muttered – and he even adjusted the _glasses_ the way Shiro did! It was a thumb and middle finger grip around the glasses frame, which had evolved with the need to curl his index finger to hold his pencil when he studied long hours. "Quit laughing or I'll stick this up your nose", he threatened, wagging a martini toothpick between his fingers the way Shiro would've wagged a cigarette.

"That's the best thi-hihihihi best thing I've seen in- in my life…!" Shiro wheezed, wiping tears with the back of his hand. Holy crap: so wrong, so wrong – and so right! "Why don't you do impersonations more often? You're good!"

"Good? I'm _outstanding!_ " Yes, yes, and looking perfectly mad with that huge smirk and his hair tossed by a hurricane. "I once tricked the Emperor of Constantinople into thinking I was Mohammed! Oh, _that_ was a show, you should've seen…!" And while Mephisto returned the glasses and combed his hair back to its proper fag- fashionable style, he related in vivid detail how he had posed as the Muslim prophet in the Ottoman Emperor's hall; and how Johann, disguised as the same prophet, had subsequently had the busiest night in his life in Emperor's harem.

…and it only got better when he used the comb to demonstrate sleight-of-hand tricks that really weren't tricks. Shortly after his cravat scarf came out of the bartender's beer tap when he tried to pour a customer a glass.

"Shit, man, I don't know why you're principal at all – you should do performances, either at the Ottoman court or at kiddies' birthday parties", Shiro wheezed into his drink, sore and giddy with laughter. "Damn, if I could do the stuff you can do… I had this one trick I used to do, with a cup and some pebbles or coins." Pity he'd gotten the prize money all in notes. "Got any coins on ya?"

No, just 2000-yen notes. His reason for that? They were more "interesting" than other yen notes. The only interesting thing Shiro could see in that was that Mephisto's space-bent wallet contained enough 2000-yen notes to stuff himself a king-sized mattress – and a second unicorn plushie.

"Will these do?" Mephisto inquired, holding out-

"Wha-? You stole them off the Klondike table, you madman? What if somebody sees and thinks we cheated?"

"I borrowed them. Don't worry, Shiro: everyone's busy with their own wins and losses", Mephisto dismissed with a dainty wagging of his wrist. "And he won't look this way if he can help it~" he added and sent a suggestive wink at the bartender, who was very busy with polishing spotless martini glasses at the other end of the counter.

"Alright, so, you take this", he handed Mephisto his emptied saké cup and got the five borrowed dice in return, "and you hold it wherever you like, and I'm gonna toss the dice into it."

It was the simplest game ever invented. Simple, because anyone could do it: getting _good_ at it, however, wasn't something just anyone did.

The red and white die clinked flawlessly into the cup in Mephisto's outstretched hand… The cup on top of his head… The cup drifting above the row of Korean soju flasks…

"You move that cup when I throw and I _will_ shove a toothpick up your nose", Shiro informed him when he made the cup hover behind the ear of a yakuza member that had his back to them. "Sideways." He rolled the die between his fingers, feeling the weight and the angles of the smooth surface as he blinked the alcohol-fog away and focused on the ceramic cup. He could never really explain how he did it, except in vague terms of "gut feeling" and "instinct": but when he focused on a target, he hit it.

*clink*

The well-dressed yakuza member turned sharply at the sound, but the cup and die had already disappeared and reappeared in Mephisto's hand.

"No nerves missing there", Mephisto grinned and plucked out the die. "One to go, yes…?"

"Oh come on…!" Shiro flung his arms out in an eloquent gesture. As if it was physically possible to hit the cup when it was held upside down!

"What's this? You think the Great Prophet in all his glory can't perform miracles…?" the demon grinned with a hazy-eyed wink.

"A miracle like getting me into an Oriental harem overnight?" Nah, Mephisto wouldn't do that without payment – and besides, Shiro had a certain someone to be faithful to.

"That kind of miracle would cost more than drinks, little lion~" the demon smirked, and wagged a clawed finger at him. "But~ if you're willing to pay…"

"Pay? I'll just wait till you have Carmilla over again", Shiro grinned, and tried to focus on the cup.

…being tipsy helped, actually. Normally he wouldn't have been able to twist his brain into accepting that he was aiming to toss into an upturned cup.

*clink*

They went at it one more round, but no matter how Mephisto held the cup he didn't miss the mark.

"Such a waste of youth; didn't you have anything better to do all day than toss pebbles?" Eventually, Mephisto grew tired of the game and surrendered the saké cup to the wooden counter.

"Not really." Shiro poured himself another drink, glanced at the forest of bottles, and decided that the bill would look the same whether he counted them or not. "I mean, I did lots'a things, but of all the things _did_ do, tossing pebbles must've ranked high on the Constructiveness list. The rest was pretty much destructive, one way or the other. Apart form cooking."

"You cook?"

"What's with that face? You of all people have no right to be surprised somebody can cook", he remarked defensively.

"Hmm~ I thought you were a feral cat, but it seems you have some domestic qualities after all." Green eyes glimmered impishly over the rim of the saké cup when he took a sip. "How cute~"

…yes, it was worse than when Kasumi said it. Much worse.

"More domestic qualities than you've got, pampered prince and all", he returned, jumping at the opportunity to switch the focus of the conversation. "What did you do when you grew up, then?"

Shiro could see the question totter sideways, double back, and run through the demon's fuzzy mind a second time.

"That was very long ago." Too long to linger in memory, seeing as he was scowling at his saké cup as if the answer was written at the bottom of it in too small print. "I recall helping to rear my brothers…" His scowl broke into sudden, hearty laughter that startled everyone within earshot of the bar. "And I remember when I was horning! Dear me, that was a pain. Had to smear my head with hydra blood to soothe the blisters."

Shiro stared blankly at him, running the words over in his head one more time.

"You remember when you were horny, and you got blisters from overdoing it…?"

Not that he doubted Mephisto had the stamina for that, but judging by how the demon cracked up that was not what he had said.

"Fueheheheheee~ What _is_ that: a reverse Freudian slip?! _Hearing_ what's in your subconscious instead of speaking it?!"

"I told you I was tired!" he laughed, helplessly holding out his hands before him. "My brain doesn't work properly, okay? What _did_ you say?"

"I said _horning_ ", Mephisto wheezed, cheeks glowing pink both from alcohol and from mirth. "Izz like teething, but with horns, and a lot more annoying. It itches constantly, and it's nigh impossible to sleep if your turn your head a lot."

When Shiro had re-run that by his alcohol-fogged brain, and gotten the mail to the right address, so to speak, he took an extra close look at Mephisto.

"You've got horns…?" He had never seen that.

"Who ever heard of a prince without crown?" he declaimed with that kind of wrist-flourish Shiro wished he'd included in his impersonation. "I have horns; I just don't let them show. They tend to make the clergy rather jumpy – not to mention they limit the selection of hats remarkably."

"Admit it: that last thing was the greatest concern for you!" Shiro hiccuped before cracking up at the thought of Mephisto trying to get hats to fit over a pair of bull horns.

Mephisto himself proceeded with telling the most _outrageous_ stories of what you could experience as the eldest of seven brothers – sweet gods, the Kings of Gehenna were something _vastly_ different from what the cram school course literature made them out to be…!

Shiro, in turn, told a few stories from the orphanage, but more of what he'd done and heard on the streets of True Cross Town as a young teenager. …and somewhere along the way, they ended up discussing whether or not _The Sound of Music_ would look better if a Takarazuka troupe did it. Since they couldn't stay on topic anyway, Shiro decided to see if alcohol was as good for smelting Mephisto's silver tongue as the heat of passion.

"Y'know, I couldn't help but think, since we talked about it the other day: the sects 'round here are good at what they do – is it 'cause of that artefact they inherited? Fukaku's flaming sword?"

"It's for worship nowadays, not for doing battle", Mephisto replied with a grin: he had now successfully conditioned the bartender into taking long detours around their part of the counter, and seemed to enjoy that almost as much as he would've enjoyed bending him over it.

"Isn't that one big waste of weaponry? I mean, that thing… It's gotta be among the most powerful artefacts in the world?" And wouldn't Mephisto much rather have it in his collection in Deep Keep?

But to his surprise, Mephisto's reply came with a laughing attack.

"Kukukuku – that? No one wants that old toothpick; even the Myou Dharani keeps it for sentimental reasons. It's *hic* empty."

"Empty?"

"Empty: poof~" Mephisto wiggled his fingers in front of him and tittered like a demented grade school girl. "It's a plain sword, nothing more; fine craftsmanship, certainly, but no more powerful than any other sharp pi-*hic* piece of metal. The demon that was sealed in the blade left it after the battle – but ssshhh!" he hushed, a bony finger cleaving his crescent smile in two. "The Myou Dharani would be _terribly_ sad if they found out."

"So you're gonna let them worship an empty relic instead?" More fun for him that way, probably…

"Shiro, Shiro: humanity must be allowed to worship empty relics~ Truth holds no comfort for the lost and lonely: Faith does", he said with all the conviction three flasks of saké gives. "An' like Cordoban fighting dogs, the two can't coexschischt without one slaying the other."

True. Harsh. Truth is harsh – ooh, that sounded so sensible, even when he was intoxicated.

"I think I'd rather have truth than blind belief in empty symbols", he pondered, wiggling an unlit cigarette between his fingers. "Don't gemme wrong: I get the need for hope. I just think that hope… Hope fe' something with no possibility of becoming real isn't any good hope to hold on to. It'll crush ya completely when you realise it was just a dream. Like when you snap Midori-chan's kitsune illusions." She had been awesome during their Esquire exam, really shown the power of the mind and the power of belief – and how hard it hits the mind when belief is shattered.

"Such big words~" Mephisto anchored his hazy green eyes in Shiro's and levelled his index finger at him with a sly grin. "Lemme ask you, then, young philosopher: what is truth?"

"Not your riddles again – I'm drunk, I can't think", he huffed through a smile, and looked down in his cup instead. How many cups had that been now…? He'd feel it once he rose, for sure.

"Now that's a straight-out lie, my friend; and you just said you'd rather have truth", the demon teased. "But~ that would require you to know what truth _is_."

"Truth's truth", he tossed out carelessly. "And if it isn't true, it's false. One or the other. My cup's white." He raised his saké cup in a toast and drained the last drops. "That's truth."

"Is it, really?" Mephisto questioned with a swaying smirk that knew better. He may be drunk as a skunk, but in the dim lighting his eyes gave off that faint green glow as a reminder that, even when drunk, he was a demigod; and would always know better. "To me it's slightly violet, 'cause my eyes can distinguish a wider spectrum of colours than yours." He tilted his head to the side. "There are various eyes, and as a result there's various truths; and at the faaaar~ edge of that reasoning, there is no truth – and that's the only truth!" he giggled happily, spreading the conclusion wide in his arms and almost knocking down their flasks. "Splendid, innit?"

"Truth looks different to everybody… so... Truth is what we agree upon to be true. And that doesn't even need to be true", Shiro re-defined, and felt like he might be able to grasp the full meaning of the idea when he was a bit more sober. "Wow. I think my head's spinning just from trying to understand what I just said."

"Nonetheless well spoken, Shiro", the demon slurred, and toasted to it. "In vino veritas, as the Roma-*hic* the Romans said. One's subjective truth, at least", he added, and made the flask pour him a new fill when the bartender wasn't looking. "What'cha hold for true is what a majority of eyes have agreed to see, and human eyes are easily deceived – not necessarily by demons, either." Funny thing, that; with every cup downed, his speech became more prominently accented with German. Or it could be that with every cup downed, Shiro began to hear more and more like a German…? "The Vatican's hopeless in that. Loves to monopolise truth, be it about demons, humans, or angels. The state of the soul in particular – oh, they like to think they know all about that; salvation an' res'rrection an' afterlife, all part of Faith elevated to Truth by authority of men sworn to serve without question", he smirked, cadence tipping drunkenly about and sounding very amused. He looked very amused, too, for grand gestures were seriously threatening their collection of saké flasks. "And thus, when Christ makes a dead man rise again izza miracle; when a demon does the same it's hereschy. No sense pointing out the incongruity to 'em, either: the only abscholute truth in these matters is that religion has no sense of humour."

"Well, we're just humans: can't expect us to be as fair and open-minded as certain demons, can ya?"

"Do I hear you slandering my good name, Shiro…?" he chortled, and very nearly missed his mouth when he drank.

"What good name, Sammy?" he snickered in drunken delight. "So you brought someone back, then? Like, you actually returned a soul to-?"

"No, no, there's no way of returning _that_. Not that I know of, at leasht. A human can be brought back without soul, that's the only thing I know." Mephisto sloshed the saké around in the cup. He wasn't looking at it, no: his gaze was far away beyond the liquor cabinet. "But not the same as he was in life."

Everyone knows what a revelation is. Few get to experience what one feels like: but when they do, they know. Because for a split second you relive eternity, and watch the world fall apart and be reborn all at once.

Human eyes are easily deceived, yes. By demons and by humans, and by the world itself. They see only three dimensions of a world that has so many more. They do not see the underlying structure hiding 'neath the surface, the skeleton of interweaving strings of cause and effect that stretch through time and space in infinity; the connecting weft that binds together all the constituents of the world.

In the sleazy bar that night, Mephisto spoke words that set those strings trembling, and one pair of human eyes caught a glimpse of secrets hidden far below the surface.

" _That is..._ That _is what it is_ _…?_ "

The connections, the underlying structure; he could see it. He could see the vibration that sped like lightning through the weft, connected dot to dot faster than his mind could follow and painted a pattern that had been there - had been there _all the time -_ and he hadn't _seen_ it, not until that one sentence bridged the gaps between islands of pointless information and bound them together with meaning. It was a breathless epiphany that carried Shiro to soaring heights, through fog and illusion and into brightness: up through the mud, to bloom in the light of clarity…

" _You don't need alchemy when you've got magic._ "

It had puzzled him in the tower laboratory, and then he had forgotten it. He hadn't understood it back then; he hadn't seen the connections, hadn't seen the pattern.

" _You wouldn't need alchemy if you could turn back time for the dead._ "

He saw it now: so brilliant, so clear, so-

" _But you can't._ "

Hollow. Empty. Forlorn. …and silently… the light of epiphany shrivelled… and dimmed. Left behind was something void, something lost, something... broken.

" _You can't bring them back._ "

Shiro stared transfixed through the demon; stared through time, through connections cut and lost…

" _You can't bring him back…_ " Four hundred years ago, Johann Faust had died; on time, as outlined in his contract. " _But you wanted to._ " The hollow feeling twisted in his chest. " _You tried._ " And four hundred years ago, a man claiming the name Johann Faust had immersed himself in the hunt for a way to resurrect the dead.

" _Mephisto… Did you…?_ "

There are some things you just don't do. There are things, very special things, that even cats as curious as Fujimoto Shiro do not pry into. Not because he didn't want to, but because… he didn't have a right to. Those lines and dots – lines and dots he was never meant to connect – had revealed a pattern that quivered softly in his consciousness, frail as a shadow in the mists of memory; a pattern that formed a seal of confidence that told him without words that this… This was not to be touched.

Shiro turned away, cast his gaze into his cup as if ashamed of what he had seen. The reflection returned the look quietly, and from the depths of the saké that squirming hollowness inside summoned up a memory long forgotten.

* * *

_There's a special smell in subways. It's the smell of underground and moving metal, plastic linings, and smooth hydraulics blended expertly by the gushing breath of carts pushed through tight-fit tunnels. The people are different, too. They're always moving. Always in transit, headed for a destination. The subway is a world unto its own where nobody belongs, where nothing transpires. It's a place in between places whose sole purpose is to connect, and like the winding tunnels of an ant colony it takes workers to their work and back again. Although, for him, the politely quiet subway carts had been his place of work._

_Pick-pocketing was something Shiro had taken up for the money, but also for the thrills. There was something primal to it that set his senses pleasantly on edge to focus both on his intended victim and on the surrounding passengers. Like hunting. Hunting and knowing that one wrong move would make you the hunted._

_There had been that one time, once when he'd passed through the mechanical arms and shuffled down the concrete stairs on one of the town's ground-level_ _stations. The wallet in his jacket pocket was a nondescript black one in leather, lifted off a bespectacled man that seemed so lost in thought he wouldn't have_ _noticed if someone stole the shoes off his feet. Easy target._

 _Shiro had seated himself on the rain-wet swing on a forlorn playground and counted the yen notes – the guy had had enough of them to make it a long and_ _pleasant count._

 _Between two crumpled 1000-yen notes his fingers had met with different texture. Paper. Pale purple letter-paper with colourful flowers and a little ladybug_ _holding up a heart, folded together over handwriting that wanted to look its finest but didn't quite know how._

_"Hi daddy! I have read all the books now. I liked 'Kimba the White Lion' best. The doctors said I should rest today. They didn't let me take a walk, so I write to you instead. I like nurse Nanase-san, she is a nice person…"_

_And Shiro had turned his eyes away from the letter, away from the little girl that lay in a hospital bed with leukaemia and no prospect of ever leaving it. He'd had no right to see that. He'd had no right to intrude on something so private, something so… fragile._

_She had sought his eyes again, from the small photo that had fallen into the brown sand. Clear, smiling eyes, too big for her gaunt little face. He couldn't tell her age; it hid too well in the shadows cast by accented bones, but she wasn't old. Not as old as she looked. So pale, so thin…_

_Fragile._

_He had gone through painstaking page flipping in phonebooks to find the address that fit the name on the driver's license. He'd narrowed it down using the area that subway line covered, and at long last pushed the wallet – money, letter and all – into the apartment's mailbox._

There are some things you just don't do.

* * *

"And you say I can't hold my l-*hic*-quor, spacing out like that?"…and outside Shiros' mind, the world kept to its usual tracks in its usual pace, oblivious that a revelation had touched earth and left it scorched.

"I can hold my liquor, just not my manners", he replied with ease. "Uncivilised monkey an' all that. You should be glad I'm just spacing out and not stealing your hairclips."

Fragile things break easily if the wrong eyes touch them: and for that reason, Shiro was prepared to pretend that his never had.

"…I'm not wearing any hairclips", Mephisto recalled, brow crinkled with thought.

"Well… Then I must've already stolen them, right? Who's drunk an' spacing out then, eh?" And though he probably failed, Shiro made a good effort at smugging his befuddled friend back.

Winning a battle of words against a demon should be easier if the demon in question is plastered, right?

Wrong. Alcohol did nothing to blunt Mephisto's sharp mind, just derailed it and sent it skipping from track to track without _any_ chance of following.

"The point is… dolphins", Mephisto concluded – without any previous reasoning, sure, but nonetheless he made his point sound very convincing. "Dolphins are really smart. They went from being pigs to being dolphins *hic* because they were smart enough to know dolphins get more appreciation for their smartness than pigs. If you were as smart as you think, you'd turn into a dolphin."

"Wahahaha-hah-wh-what…?!" Shiro didn't know if he was laughing or just exhaling rapidly because his brain overheated when it tried to make sense of that. "The hell, man, are you even speaking Japanese 'cause I have no idea what you're trying to say…?"

"See?" Mephisto grinned, drunk and content and well underway to fall asleep against the bar counter. "If you were a dolph-*hic* a dolphin, you'd get it right away."

And since he wasn't, he abandoned any hope of getting Mephisto's point and went along with the madness. He found it worked out surprisingly well.

* * *

"We gotta do this again sometime", Shiro concluded firmly a while later, although the bar stool didn't feel all that firm and steady beneath him. "An' I want that entrance you did, too, back at the dorm. Especially the glittery confetti." Just the thought of it made him shake with laughter. "An' toss in the fireworks from Hyakki Yagyou too while ye're at it. Confetti and serpentines and pink goddamn clouds – hell, the only thing missing was doves flying out of your hat."

"You'd want that?" Mephisto hiccupped with a fuzzy grin.

"You can do that?"

"Of course I can."

"What'cha waiting for, then? Let's see a miracle, O Great Prophet!"

Mephisto spread his arms and nodded his head in a jester's bow: and out of the sleeves of his yukata flew dozens of white doves.

Doves really don't like people chasing them. This is truly fascinating, since people don't like being chased by doves either. One would think this should result in a relation of deep, mutual understanding, but humanity's record in that department isn't very flattering.

What else is truly fascinating is pigs: the ones that stayed on land and actually became pigs, rather than join their cousins that opted for dolphinism. One must truly contemplate what might have lain behind such a decision, and that, curiously enough, leads back to doves: doves, like dolphins, are intelligent creatures. Doves, like dolphins, have evolved from once land-bound animals. Pigs, who evidently are intelligent, are then merely the evolutionary stadium between dolphin and dove, and the pigs of today just haven't decided which they would prefer to be yet. Because apparently, pigs that had made up their minds could learn to fly: although not very well, compared to doves.

"You summoned a flying pig…?!" Shiro laughed so hard he could barely breathe.

The searchlight of swinging lamp screens drove the birds into a frenzy, and flashed over a cacophony of shouting people, glass crunching under expensive shoes, cards and tiles gushing off from liquor-soaked tables, and jackets flailing in the air as people knocked each other over trying to capture the doves – and, more importantly, the winged piglet.

"Thought I might as well!" Mephisto shouted above the ruckus with an unsober giggle jumping hopscotch over his words. "It's a schpecial occasion after all!"

Special indeed: people were trampling each other to catch the impossible animal and make themselves a fortune off it – and among the elbows hid yakuza members with knives and greedy eyes.

"Oi, think we should leave?" Nobody paid them any attention right now, but once the doves and the pig were caught, someone would probably pay them attention of the wrong kind.

"Nobody suspects a devil in their midst fufufu – and neither will they miss him…!"

Whether that was consent or not, Shiro dragged Mephisto with him out of the gambling den.

* * *

The sliver of sky above the blinking neon signs had gone black, and tucked itself into all the alleyways that branched off the one they wobbled ahead on. Cars slunk in and out of streets like lantern-eyed predators, and hotels along the way tastefully advertised one price per night and one price per "rest".

Shiro was sober enough to feel a twinge of worry for what might happen if demons decided to make an attempt at possessing him under these conditions, and made an effort to sober up a bit more just in case. There were plenty of coal tars there, and not so few greater demons, either: but none seemed to take any interest in them. Of course. Just like at Hyakki Yagyou, no one dared touch Prince Samael's toy boy. Shiro wasn't _that_ drunk, though. Sure, he was a bit unsteady on his feet, but only when the sidewalk tried to trip him. _Mephisto_ , on the other hand, was-

"Carry meeee~"

Whiny.

"You're a grown demon, Sammy: act your age, would ya?"

"But I'm sleepy, Shiroooo~"

…he was adorable when he was drunk. Shiro couldn't help thinking it, no more than he could stop laughing at the sight of the most miserable demon he'd ever seen. Mephisto's normally so refined poise became most entertaining when it had marinated in alcohol, and when he still _tried_ to assume his usual, confident strut he teetered into Shiro like a poorly anchored flagpole.

"I can't carry you: you're too big, an' I'm too drunk. I'd drop us both off a bridge or something." Nevertheless, he slung an arm around Mephisto's waist to steady him.

"You're too pragmatic", the demon decided, and dumped an arm over his shoulders with a hiccup that rattled the ribs under Shiro's hand. "No fun to be had in pragmatism, all focused on result. You could at least _try_ to carry me."

"Could an' should, that's two different things, Sammy - it was you who said that, wasn't it?"

"But demons tell liiiiies, hasn't the Order taught you that?" he giggled happily.

"Hmm you're right. I really shouldn't take your advice 'n carry you, then." Shiro was, if he might say so, quite pleased with leading this game for once.

"Too pragmatic", Mephisto huffed. "Pragmatism 's by far one o' the better options, though", he soliloquized to himself. "Takes a certain type of mind to see the world for what it is and still have the imagination to craft solutions from whatever material 's available. Pragmatic's a rather- *hic* a rather good thing to be." They narrowly avoided knocking down an unusually ugly lion sculpture outside a shabby hotel lobby. "Although you can be an idiot at times."

"Why thank you, your highness. Sometimes bein' an idiot 's a good thing, though." Like when you try to get arrogant Yaonarus to spill the beans.

There was a silence in place of the amused retort he had expected. A rather peculiar silence, coming from Mephisto. A car horn bleated in the distance, and a flock of pigeons hurriedly abandoned their cable when they walked past below it: and Mephisto remained sile-

"Only an idiot would've saved Satan's son", he said. "I'm not an idiot, however, so I can't- *hic* can't follow what went through your mind when you did." Oh, but that cat was also curious, so _damn_ curious; it took a few drinks before he caved to the urge, but he _had_ to know. "What motivates a human to do something so incredibly *hic* schtupid?"

That…

"I haven't thought about that", he answered frankly. It lies in a pragmatic nature to find practical solutions to problems, and once a problem is solved it sees no need to dwell on theoretical analysis of how it was done. But what does motivate a human to do something like that? To put his life on the line for another, even when this other turns out to be Satan's son? " _Meh, that's just a title. A real stupid one._ " As if lineage determined anything about you – seriously, even when he was drunk it sounded stupid. " _Evil is of the heart, not of blood or breed._ "

Both Midori and Sen said that. They would know, wouldn't they? Tch, but to claim a Prince of Gehenna had goodness in his heart was laughable, regardless which world you looked at. And still… That piercing moment of clarity in the bar…

" _It wasn't the saké getting to my head_ ", Shiro told himself firmly. " _He has Johann's body, he researched artificial life. I heard him say those words. I heard_ how _he said them._ "

Could've been deception. Could've been a lure to make him see the demon in a more favourable light – wasn't that what demons did?

" _He wouldn't need to lay the bait four hundred years in advance to pull something like that. He tried to bring back Johann because he_ wanted _to._ "

But if it wasn't deceit, the alternative… No, that was unheard of… That must be the alcohol, surely… Demons didn't know emotion. Not the way humans did. They could put on a display of shallow imitation, sure. They were experts in reading emotion and forging it, feigning friendliness and using it to achieve their ends, but they didn't actually...

" _What am I gonna trust: textbooks or my own eyes?_ " he snorted, blowing away a docile coal tar in the process.

He could tell what a Futotsuki must feel: the Order taught one thing, but his experience said another. The Order had thousands of years of experience and study behind its claims, and armies of exorcists that fought and taught by that knowledge: Shiro was a single teenage guy, with one year as Page and Esquire beneath his belt. He had what to back his ideas? A blinding moment of insight at the bottom of a saké flask? Fucking ridiculous, that's what it was…

" _Then let it be fucking ridiculous_ ", he snapped at his irritatingly rational thoughts. " _Screw what the Order says –_ _I saw what I saw._ " Yeah, an idiot. That stubborn kind of idiot that trusted his own mind and would've gotten himself stoned for heresy if he'd lived a few centuries earlier. So what? He may be less than fly shit in the Order's documents, but the things he had seen had- "Ow, what's that for?!" Mephisto flicked the cross on his glasses string again, and it struck his cheek like a very big and uncoordinated fly. "Hey!"

"Some company you make, schtaring into empty space like that." And what company did _he_ make, whining about getting carried? "Leaving questions unanswered, too."

"Like you don't do that always", he huffed.

"Avoiding the question now? My my, couldn't be that you did it be- *hic* because you like me~?"

"Now you're just full of yourself."

"Fufufu I think I hit the ma-aark~" he sang happily, and almost missed a step in the winding stairway upwards.

"Oh for the love of- I don't _know_ why I did it, okay?"

"Don't know, just rushed headlesschly into battle? How m'I ever gonna trust you with missions?"

"How're you gonna trust me at all, you mean?" Shiro effectively ended the discussion by rubbing his fingertips into Mephisto's side, causing the ticklish demon to giggle and jerk away. Problem and practical solution: as to be expected of a pragmatist.

* * *

An indeterminable amount of time later, Shiro was supporting himself on Mephisto as much as Mephisto was supported by Shiro. Neither could recall exactly what had brought them into that bar, but Shiro had a vague idea that they had left it because the owner didn't appreciate a knothole in his counter pouring infinite amounts of wine over his floor.

"Es ist mir egal, if I fall over a bridge; carry me einfach…" Mephisto whined.

…yeah, Shiro didn't speak German. Normally. However, with a certain amount of saké and bourbon in the system, everyone speaks German.

"Shouldn't you… Can't you just, ya know…" He snapped his fingers sloppily. "Poof us home?" He was almost carrying Mephisto already, and didn't feel confident he could do that all the way to the Academy without getting them both run over by a car. Mephisto would live through it, of course. Might get even whinier because of it, but other than that he would be fine. Shiro himself felt that his body was put through enough shit as it was.

"What a good idea – eins, zschwei, drei!"

*poof*

Oh god, oh _god…_!

Shiro shoved himself away from Mephisto and heaved his stomach contents out.

"Fuck, I hate travelling like that", he gurgled between spitting and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. Erh, it stank, holy _hell_ it stank… "Shouldn't there be schome… some regulations on that…?" He tottered unsteadily as he put some distance between himself and the puke. "Like… demon laws? Don't drink an' do magic?"

"Sounds überraschend sens'ble, coming fr-*hic* from you, Shiro." Mephisto was trying very, very hard to focus on him, and it was only going so-so. "Am I drunk…?"

Shiro cracked up laughing in the midst of spitting, and very nearly choked on his own saliva.

"You're drunk", he confirmed with a grin smeared over his whole face. "An' you're especially adorable with ya' cravat tied 'round yer… yer curly-whirly-thingy", he snickered, tracing spirals in the air with his forefinger.

Mephisto's hand went to his head, fumbled for the cravat, caught the end of it and pulled-

" _Pffrrkwahahaha it's- it's wobbling! Nhnhnhnhhahahaaha like a windscreen wiper!_ " Shiro couldn't talk, he had enough to do with staying on his feet when he laughed.

"I tried to make a bow…" How wonderfully confused he looked, as if he wasn't quite sure he had been wearing the garment in his hand… "My schpatial thinking might be a bit… muddled."

"Yeah. Yeah, I think so", Shiro agreed sagely. "We're in a rice field." And then he couldn't hold it together any longer. He clutched the lavender yukata for support and laughed himself to tears against Mephisto's shoulder. "We're in a fucki-hihihihihahahahahaa we're- we're in a fucking _rice field_ …!" And he was soaked up to his shins, and there was puke in the water, and the sun was rising at the horizon, and- and- "Just how mh-mhmhehehehehaha just how muddled _is_ your space thinking…?!"

Mephisto broke down in giggles – unrestrained, ribcage-shaking giggles that had such a- such a _girly_ sound to them that Shiro felt his laughs deal muscle damage to his abdomen. And for a while they could only stand there, laughing and swaying together in the water, and feeling utterly, perfectly silly.

"Best- best out of three…?" Mephisto wheezed under his breath, and raised his fingers.

Yeah. Yeah, fire away: best out of-

"Eins…"

Oh, that was one tempting teacup to tamper with…

"Zschwei…"

Common sense – what common sense?

"Mepphy Land", Shiro said.

"Drei!"

*poof*

Oh yes: when the smoke dissipated and his head reconnected to his body, they were standing at the cotton candy booth in Mepphy Land, and the morning sun had just kissed the highest peaks of _Go To Hell_ with gold.

"Really can't think straight, can ya…?" Shiro slurred through a chuckle, thankful that he had already thrown up.

"*hic* Not of that disposition, m'afraid. Third time's the charm, then: eins, zwei-"

"Gingerbread", Shiro randomised.

"Drei!"

*poof*

And there went Mephisto, lost and gone in favour of the largest gingerbread house Shiro had ever seen. It was like a real house. The roof sported a colourful tiling of giant lens-shaped candies beneath a coating of powdered sugar that looked just like real snow – and look at the handiwork on those frilly icing lace curtains!

Shiro wobbled around the corner and knocked on the door. Because it seemed like the right thing to do.

"Anybody home…?" he asked with a stupid smile.

"…I dischtin'tly recall inventing hinges… Mid-Iron Age or so..." Pieces of the door smacked Shiro in the face as the massive gingerbread wall was knocked out. Mephisto reappeared, dusting crumbs from his yukata. "Next time", he swayed and blinked, "I'm gagging you. Jus'so ya know. Eins, zwei-"

"Girl's uniform!"

"Drei!"

*poof*

Girl's uniform, yes. On Mephisto, no.

"That should teach you to *hic* keep your mouth shut, Shiro-chan", he giggled as Shiro tried to forcibly make the skirt reach at least down to his knees.

"An' you should keep your fetishist fantasies to yourself, Sammy", he shot back. How on earth did girls wear these things…? "Gemme outta this _now_."

"Hnhnhnhn your wish is my command~"

" _No, wait-_ "

*poof*

Given the circumstances, Shiro was relieved that he got to keep his underwear. Even if that was the extent of it.

"Any other requests…?" Mephisto offered with spread hands, looking very happy about the situation in a very unsober way. "Want me to get'cha out of those, too?"

" _No_. An' gag me before I say some other stupid- No, Chris'sake, _don't_!" He shot forward and grabbed Mephisto's fingers clumsily – fingers and hand and part of yukata – before he could snap them. "Okay, le's try this again. I want… my uniform." He held a finger up in front of the demon's face, like a lighthouse to guide his words. "No one else's. An' I want every garment in the right place. Think ye can *hic* do that?" Great, now he'd started hiccuping, too... "And keep yer hands to yesself while you're at it", he added as he became aware of a hand in his lower back that he was quite sure wasn't his own. He had one hand pointing at Mephisto, and one hand holding Mephisto's - yeah, that third one couldn't be his.

"So many demands~" the demon snickered, and successfully poofed his uniform back in place. "Now, do keep that mouth o' yours shut…" He placed a finger over Shiro's lips and leaned in so close their noses almost touched. "…or I might feel tempted to see if the taste is as sweet as the sound."

"Man, you're even worse when you're drunk." Though… when he tried to think about it a bit more soberly… " _Does alcohol have the same effect on demons' restraint as it has on humans'?_ " And was that morning sun glinting fiery green in his eyes, or something else? "Dun' worry, I'll zip up", Shiro ensured. "Poof ahead."

"Eins, zwei, drei!"

*poof*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:**
> 
>  
> 
> What really happened in the fifth year of Ansei (actually fourth to sixth year), when the Impure King was defeated, was that there was an outbreak of cholera in Japan. That was the result of Japan's opening of its harbours in 1854: Europeans brought with them both new goods and new diseases. Or maybe they brought the goods, and a certain demon brought in other demons…?
> 
>  **Esquire Club** \- I have no idea what Esquire Club really is, I just saw the sign in Teramachi and thought it was wicked cool that it lay just across the street from:
> 
>  **Mr. Young Men** , which is a very nice place to dine, and it so happens that it opened in 1976. x3 The menu is authentic, too. (Yay for sightseeing and researching in combo!) The sole difference between monjayaki and okonomiyaki seems to be the texture of the batter: runny or less runny. Mephisto states in the manga that the "bacon & cheese" monja is his favourite. The _Young men_ yakisoba is the one with pork in it, so obviously he'd want that... (Campus men is with shrimp.)
> 
>   **ABBA** was very big in Japan in the 70's: I met a lovely Japanese man in Kyoto who sold artwork made from silkworm cocoons, and when he learnt where I was from he cracked a happy smile and spoke a few sentences of limping-but-completely-correct Swedish. It turned out he was from "the ABBA generation". =)
> 
>   **Corruption in Japan**  
>  There's been some heavy measures taken against yakuza activity (gambling pits, brothels, narcotics) today, but there used to be shady connections between them and lawmakers in the past. I'm basing Creek's End's description both on the structure of True Cross Town in the AnE film (thanks for that, Q ;) ), and on the gay club districts in Tokyo. In the latter I was explicitly warned to watch my step and not bump into anyone, since yakuza think that's excuse enough to rob you/beat you up/rape you/all of the mentioned. =X
> 
>  **The occupation of Japan**  
>  As with all occupations, there were crimes committed against the occupied population. And, as often is the case, be it caused by the pride of the occupiers or the shame of the occupied, the victims were rarely given justice.
> 
>   **The devil's children have the devil's luck** is the idiom, but what it means is that evil people often seem to be unduly lucky – because they're in league with demons…? I decided on this mostly because it doesn't seem fair to give Mephisto every advantage imaginable. =P He needs some weaknesses to make things more interesting: and if he doesn't have Lady Luck on his side, wouldn't that prompt him to get good at planning and plotting instead?
> 
>  **Impersonation** appears to be something Mephisto gladly does for a good laugh: his adventures as Mohammed in Constantinople are mentioned the 1587 Historia von Doktor Johann Fausten. The Emperor's wives were rather happy with Faust's visit, and testified that "Mahomet" (Mohammed) was "well fitted-out – they would fain be served in such sort every day", to put it in words that 16th century morals could abide. And if Mephisto later took over that body… Enjoy your imagination, all you lovely fangirls. ;)
> 
>   **Nietzsche quotes** snuck into the dialogue in modified forms.
> 
> "There are various eyes. Even the Sphinx has eyes; and as a result there are various truths, and as a result there is no truth."
> 
> "Faith: not wanting to know what is true."
> 
>  **The Cordoba fighting dog** went extinct long ago, simply because males and females would rather bite each other to death than mate.
> 
>  **Dolphins** did evolve "backwards": water-living animals got up on land, evolved there for a few million years to the ancestors of hoofed animals (pigs, camels, llamas, hippopotamuses, deer, sheep, goats – you name it), and then went back into water and evolved to become whales and dolphins. Crazy, yet awesome. Thanks again, Gecko! …and if you don't know why I had a drunk demon ramble about dolphins and The Sound of Music, there's a book you really need to read. =.=
> 
>   **Doves** do fly out of Mephisto's hat when he announces they've been promoted to Esquire, and when Shura has caught him spying in ch 46, so what the hell… x'D The flying pig is there because _NeuroticNeko_ prophesised that Samael would create one, and since this chapter drifted towards crack and tomfoolery anyway I just went with the impulse.


	40. Hell

Hell.

He was in hell, and hell was full of shrill clay flutes that drove nails into his head and grated them down his skull.

"Turn that off…!" Shiro croaked into the pillow, cold and overheated and-

"And miss the new episode of _Haha o Tazunete Sanzen Ri_?"

"I don't _care_ about your anime." Not when it aired bloody _seven thirty_ in the morning. "I'm trying to _sleep_."

"And waste a lovely day like this? Have you seen how soft and fluffy the clouds are in that clear blue sky?"

At the command of a snap, every window blind flew up and spewed Summer's Brightest Day In Ten Years over Shiro's face.

"Ngah! Oh, god, fuck…!" He pulled the silk sheets up to shield his head, and wished he could detach it from the rest of his body until the headache passed. "You're a royal jerk, you know that?" he muttered at the muted snickering that seeped through the fabric.

"Hmm~ you might have insinuated something to that effect a few times."

Shiro's misery would _not_ entertain Mephisto with any snappy retort to that chirping cheerful comme-

His sluggish cognitive faculties did their best to interpret what was wrong in that picture, but protested loudly at the overtime work. It was no surprise that Mephisto found his suffering amusing: what was surprising (not to mention irritating) was that _he_ didn't seem to be suffering.

"You were so plastered you could barely even stand." Shiro crawled around to face the nest of cushions, lifted his sheets enough to peek out and squinted warningly at Mephisto from his not-quite-light-proof shelter. A Grumpy Tortoise of Doom. "If you're about to tell me you can poof away hangovers…"

"No such thing, little lion", Mephisto laughed, waving a hand dismissively at the hovering threat. "Fast metabolism, fast hydrolysis of alcohol: ergo, I don't get hangovers." To rub that in properly, Mephisto smugged him with a pleasant wink over his shoulder. "Ever."

"…I hate you so much right now", Shiro grumbled, and buried himself in the bliss darkness under the sheet.

"Such a lovely day~"

"Go to hell."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:**
> 
> **Haha o Tazunete Sanzen Ri** got the English title _3000 Leauges in Search of Mother_ and is about Marco, a boy living 19th century Genoa, Italy. His dad runs a hospital but focuses on treating the poor, so his family is low on money. His mother travels to Argentina to earn an extra living as a maid, but after a while she falls ill and letters cease coming to Italy. The rest of the plot is pretty much explained by the title.
> 
> **Everything you never needed to know about alcohol metabolism!**  
>  Though "everything" is an exaggeration. But a little. Enough to find it logical that Mephisto is fine while Shiro is not.
> 
> To start with the basics, the body runs on energy, and everything we eat/drink is broken down to generate that energy. Ethanol, which is the booze part of booze, is essentially a carbohydrate. Ethanol gets taken apart by the body cells until it becomes acetate, after which it is converted to energy like all other carbohydrates we eat. Between ethanol and acetate, the booze briefly exists in the shape of a molecule called _acetaldehyde_ , which is the molecule Shiro should be hurling his curses at instead of Mephisto. Acetaldehyde is what makes you feel like shit when you've drunk.
> 
> So, a hangover happens when your cells don't convert acetaldehyde to acetate fast enough: you get acetaldehyde building up and poisoning you. I'm just hypothesising this, but to me Mephisto's metabolism seems very effective, considering how much carbohydrates he stuffs himself with while still remaining thin as a stick. So he probably has a very energy demanding body and some very efficient enzymes to work his metabolism. And if he burns through regular carbohydrates that fast, he might burn through alcohol just as fast? (I am hypothesising things wildly here~)
> 
> The enzyme of interest here is _acetaldehyde dehydrogenase_ : it's what turns the toxic acetaldehyde into useful acetate. It's what saves you from hangovers. And did you know? In China and Japan, there is a wide-spread genetic mutation that inhibits the function of this particular enzyme. In other words, Shiro is likely not very good at metabolising alcohol. =P (I'm surprised he didn't feel the effects earlier, but then again there are endless variations to this mutation...)


	41. A perfect day

Mephisto's bed was a bloody death trap: a king-sized fly catch of luxury, beckoning with hour upon hour in the sweet dreamscape of dozing. The silk sheets kept just the right temperature, despite the summer warmth, and let you sleep on cool, soft clouds. The mattress embraced his body with perfection, and the _pillows_ …!

" _I could live in this bed._ " Shiro wormed one arm in under the plush pillow, nuzzled his face into it, and _relished_. " _It's gotta be stuffed with angel down or something._ "

There comes a time, however, when the pleasure of snoozing can no longer drown out the groans from an empty stomach. Shiro dragged his protesting body out of bed, donned his glasses once the shivering convulsions of hangover had passed, and began rehearsing to himself in which order clothes went on the body. Mephisto wasn't around, so he assumed there was a gap before the next anime aired.

" _…fuck._ "

Anime special. Saturday. The anime special was on Saturday, and he had promised to spend Saturday with Shizuku and Kasumi.

Shiro hopped over to the bed table on one leg while pulling his trousers up over the other. Half past eleven? No need for panic, then. He could dress and ease his uncooperative head into functioning without haste.

_Why had he saved him?_

Uncooperative head… Shiro buttoned his shirt slowly, repeating over and over the question that had squirmed in his mind ever since Mephisto's drunk curiosity planted it there. Why save Satan's son? You'd think you'd have a sound and solid reasoning to back your actions before you put yourself in a life-and-death situation like that, yeah?

Shiro's brain was a peculiar contraption not unlike a very, very old car: either it worked very efficiently, or not at all. Sometimes it was a curious mix of both, when he performed the most idiotic acts with the calculated precision of a surgeon. Deep Keep had been that kind of mix; impulse and accuracy, mindless instinct and steel focus.

" _I never thought of myself as a soldier…_ " But as he sat down on the bed to tug on his socks, he realised that's what he was: trained to make decisions and enter combat at any given moment, with a minimum margin for mistakes. He'd always had the makings of a soldier, but with the training he'd gotten through cram school he had become one. " _Pff, a soldier who betrays his own and aids the enemy._ " He cringed and cursed under his breath as his headache spiked: it was the wastebasket panda that came clanking over the checkerboard floor, carrying his other sock between its jaws. " _Demons even treat me as if I were one of them._ "

He didn't have any trash to give it, so he snatched one of Mephisto's drawings from the wall – what was that even supposed to be? a guy with a Christmas tree on his head? – and fed it to the delighted panda. He vividly remembered the first time he'd made contact with the familiar: getting bitten by the little critter for tossing crumpled paper on the table. Mephisto had had so much fun at him when he pulled his feet up in the chair... And that had only been the start.

" _I did save him 'cause I like him. I just rushed ahead without thinking and didn't realise what I was getting myself into – not the smartest thing to do, in retrospect, but I did it to save him._ " Couldn't say he regretted it, either. He regretted the six that had died, but he didn't regret saving Mephisto. He'd never regret saving someone important to him. " _Tell him that and he turns it into something pervy. Unbelievable, that guy…_ " Shiro's abdomen trembled with laughter when he recalled how Mephisto had more or less climbed up in some guy's lap in the bar, until Shiro had dragged him away. That guy really couldn't hold his liquor. " _Unbelievable and incomparable._ "

He rubbed the panda's metallic head gently and caused it to give off some strange humming sound, while his uncooperative mind lingered on certain other things that had happened yesterday.

" _I'm a human who acts like a demon, and he's a demon that acts like a human. Heh, what are the odds…?_ " A grin grew on his lips. " _About the same as the odds of him rolling a win at hazard games._ "

When he felt Mephisto's presence approach the door, he was almost done dressing.

"Gute Morgen, Sleeping beauty." True to his habits on holidays, Mephisto wore a casual yukata. Choice of clothing for the day was one in imperial yellow, with a pattern of pink seeds and white flowers that Shiro recognised from his mother's small but dearly loved garden: Japanese spindle tree.

"We've been through this, and I'm not the princess here", he pointed out with a smile.

"Clearly not, since a kiss from a prince didn't wake you from your slumber."

"What kiss?" Shiro said flatly, halting everything he had been doing.

An insinuating grin smeared itself over the demon's features.

"Come now – a handsome young man half-naked in my bed; how could I possibly resi- _Careful with that!_ " The anime figurine disappeared out of Shiro's hand before he had a chance to throw it, and reappeared in Mephisto's protective clasp. "Goodness, Shiro, I was joking! And this is a limited edition collectible! It could become _invaluable_ in the future, sought after by otakus like the Golden Fleece by the Argonauts!"

He was safe, then – well, not from Mephisto's imminent ode to otaku culture, but even that held a certain charm once you had accepted it as one of his many characteristic quirks. Shiro had learnt quite a few new words that way: _shibboleth_ , for one. _Tsundere_ was a word Mephisto had refused to explain, but since Shiro kept hearing it applied to himself he suspected it had some pervy meaning that validated the expression "ignorance is bliss".

It was fascinating, too, to see how all that exposure to anime had influenced Mephisto's body language. Shiro had put it down to sheer quirkiness at first, but as he'd become aware of the demon's habits and hobbies it had occurred to him that his behaviour looked too much like a cartoon's for it to be coincidence.

" _And he's got natural purple hair. He's like a living anime character._ " Shiro had zoned out of the demon's monologue long ago, and focused his attention on adding the final touches to his clothing. " _Wonder what his series would be called? Fufufufu 'Ribon no Akuma'._ " He watched his reflection grin at the thought. " _Or 'Marvelous Mephisto'! Guh, maybe without the panty-shots…_ "

"-the depth and complexity of a charming façade over a troubled past makes moekko even more…" The lilting, enthusiastic voice trailed off; green eyes lingered on Shiro's hands and the work they were performing. "Since when can you do a tie?"

"I learnt it the first time you showed me", Shiro replied, grinning at the look that revelation planted on Mephisto's face. "But it's much more fun to pretend I can't and hear you whining about it." Shiro smoothed the shirt collar down over the tie, and adjusted the latter to his preferred degree of sloppiness. "Guess that's not gonna work anymore. How about breakfast?"

Mephisto pinched the bridge of his nose with two clawed fingers, but chuckled rather than sighed.

"My my, what a monster I've created…"

* * *

Shiro burped loudly on his way down the road from Faust Mansion. The wheeling swallows cheered summer on with sharp cries, and a pleasant breeze tossed his hair and tugged at the jacket slung over his shoulder. Ukobach had taken every precaution to ensure the guest would be satisfied with his breakfast, and lined up a buffet with more dishes than even the fancy Academy cafeteria offered. Ukobach was also a dangerously talented chef.

The bright day smoothed out the sinus curve of his body temperature, and Shiro wore a smile on his lips despite the sluggish protests from his head. True Cross Town reached for the horizon below him; one mastodon carpet of civilization drinking up the sunlight and beaming it back from parabolic antennas and bridge wiring and windshields, with buildings elbowing each other for space in the square paddocks streets herded them into. Up through the mud, striving for the light.

Shiro took a moment to stop and look at it: look at it from the topmost lotus flower that soared higher than all the rest. On days like this, such a view filled one's lungs with warm hope and vibrant promises.

" _I can do whatever I want now_ ", he told the city quietly, smiling at the bustling panorama and closing his eyes briefly as the wind made the crosses on the glasses string dance. " _I can start studying for my first Meister, I've got money, friends, girlfriend, summer job, a reputation…_ " He squinted in the bright light, and grinned wider still. " _First ever to pass all exams at once, most promising student in decades: suck on that._ " For a moment he imagined he was thinking about somebody else, 'cause that really wasn't him. Not a year ago. So many things that can change in a single year… " _I've got the world at my feet._ " And what a feeling that was! " _And all because I was dumb enough to break into that old goat's office._ " Shiro laughed quietly to himself. That's Mephisto's beloved Lady Chance for you; turning the world inside out when you least expect it.

No headache could stop him from running the remaining road down to the Academy campus: too much hope warming his muscles, too many promises buzzing in his nervous system. Too much Shiro to fit into the body.

"Haaah-haah-haah…" Kasumi was right to click her tongue at his stamina; still, it felt good. He dropped his jacket on the first patch of grass he came upon, laid down and leaned back on his elbows and just… enjoyed. " _This day's perfect._ " He closed his eyes and smiled up at the sun, feeling the grass under his fingers and the smell of warm asphalt in his nostrils. " _A cigarette now and it would be really perfect._ "

Suddenly wondering if Mephisto had remembered to return his lighter, Shiro sat up and dug around in his pocket. Yes, the lighter was there: along with something else.

" _Candy?_ " He pulled the smooth, hard pieces out of his pocket: it was not candy. " _Ah, that's right_ ", he grinned. Didn't remember putting them there, but seeing them made a chuckle bounce in his throat. " _I'm pretty sure they didn't have that colour before_ ", he mused as he turned one of them between his fingers. Looked more like children's toys now… "Oh, of course", he chortled quietly to himself. "Don't do magic when you're drunk. Never know what might happen."

But it's more fun that way. It's more fun to lay rules aside now and then; take chances, and see where they get you.

"Take a gamble…" Shiro mumbled, watching the sunlight reflect off the object's shiny surface. "That's what we do, you and I…" And nurtured by the warm sunlight and a belly full of breakfast, an idea took shape.

An idea is a curious thing. You never quite know where it comes from, and more often than not it's one of those wonders that successfully slips past notice and carries out its work with no questions asked. But, as with many wonders, one might still rediscover it and marvel; if you pay attention, that is. The forming of an idea is quick – too quick to register, for it is the point where knowledge and memory cease to be either and combine into something entirely new. It's the magical moment when strands of thought and recollections half forgotten merge together, and give birth to something that is more than the sum of its constituents.

As it were, Shiro was far too occupied with being alive to pay attention, and this particular wonder slipped completely past notice and scrutiny.

…as maybe other things did, too.

* * *

Hellhounds are excellent trackers, and also ridiculously easy to track with the burnt paw marks they leave. Shiro followed the trail to the small orchard where Midori had gathered wood for their charms long ago. The pear and apple trees were in full bloom, as though some of the fluffy clouds Mephisto admired had been anchored to earth with gnarly trunks. Humming bees were busy securing that autumn would have plenty of apples that students could pick: and beneath the buzzing foliage stood a lanky, traditionally dressed teenager who'd already tanned to a hue of dark honey. He didn't look quite as harmonious as the rest of the setting.

"Goddammit, Shiro! I nearly shit myself! Why'd ya send that beast ta eat up my work?!"

With that spiky, combed-back haircut Shizuku looked almost like he was bristling where he stood, slightly hunched, with the tip of his khakkhara pointing accusingly at the hellhound that was… chewing… on something…

"Sorry, I just didn't know where to find you." Shiro dismissed his familiar by burning through the summoning circle with his cigarette, and picked the chewed, slimy, _scorched_ piece of wood up from the grass with an apologetic look. "Um, I'll cover the extra cost for making a new one", he said sheepishly. "What was it going to be?"

"A daruma otoshi doll. Wasn't the head piece yer mutt got, fortunately." Shizuku swung the khakkhara around to rest against the apple tree with the same practiced motions as Kasumi did. "Ya came ta find me, ye say? Not ta collect me fer hell, I hope?"

"Actually, that was what I was going to do – but I'm willing to let you off the hook if you do me a favour."

"I'm lis'ning, Enma-kun", he grinned and crossed his arms.

"Do you take commissions?"

"Ye as dumb as ye look? It's what I make a living off."

"I look nowhere near as dumb as I am." Even with pink hair. "I've got a bit of a special request, if you're up to it. I'm paying, it's not that: the favour is that you'll do it today, before you guys leave." Shiro rummaged around his pocket and got out- "Crap, I must've dropped one. Anyway, these." He held out the remaining four in the palm of his hand. "Have you got any tool that can make a hole in them? Enough for a nylon string to fit through?"

"Lemme have a look at that." Shizuku picked one up for closer scrutiny. "Plastic. Yeah, I can put a hole through this. It's gonna take a while with hand-tools, but it's doable." He cupped his large, calloused hand and let Shiro drop the other three in it. "I'm gonna need ye ta hold 'em still for me, though."

"If I do half the work, I should get half the pay", Shiro smiled, putting his cigarette out and seating himself on his knees in the grass.

"That's why I charge extra fe' whining." Shizuku flashed him an impish glance as he sat down and began assembling a simple hand-drill from his roll of tools.

"Per minute, or per word?"

"Per on."

"The hell's 'on'?"

"Pff, ye're funny… I learnt ta write with a stick in dirt, an' learnt ta read from road signs an' shop windows." Shizuku raised a pierced eyebrow over his teasing smile, silently asking how much Shiro had learnt in the public schools he went to. "On is the unit ye use when ye count sounds in words, but it's not paid much attention to outside poetry." He set the first item on a flat piece of wood, and motioned for Shiro to hold it in place. "In poetry it's a must. Like, fer haiku the form is five on, seven on, five on; fer tanka it's five, seven, five, seven, seven."

That was pretty cool – Shizuku was cool, in many ways. He'd grown up feral, like Shiro, but done it in rural Japan while Shiro had spent his life in the city. They were similar, on many levels: and still, they had two completely different reference frames.

"Do I look like the kind of guy that reads poetry…?" Shiro asked, grinning askew at the mere thought of it.

However, his words made Shizuku's smile turn downright devilish.

"Nah; ye look more like the kind a' guy that reads shoujo manga he's borrowed from 'is demon buddy."

Wha-? Okay, _now_ he looked as dumb as he was.

"Who told you that?" Shiro sputtered.

"Sen-chan. Midori-chan thought ye' shoulder bag smelt o' Pheles an' poked around in it." He snickered merrily at Shiro's groan. "Berusayu no Bara, is it~?"

" _Please_ don't tell Kasumi-chan?"

Or anybody else, for that matter. His reputation would do just fine without people knowing he read girls' comics.

"Kukukuku got ya by the balls now, haven't I~?"

"And squeezing", said Shiro flatly.

"I think I'll leave that ta Pheles. Just joking, man, just joking – it's hard ta resist." He glanced up only briefly, and held hands and eyes steady on his work. "I was gonna ask if ye'll have the time ta spar with me, though. After summer. Kasu an' I leave with the sun te'morrow morning. We might drop by here a few times during summer, but just briefly. I'll settle back in a week or so before next semester – will ye be 'ereabouts then?"

"I'll be here whenever you are, working my butt off as janitor."

"Good ta know."

"And I'll be happy to cause some fatal training accident if you tell anyone about that manga."

"Doesn't sound that threatening from a guy with pink hair", he chuckled, and blew away plastic dust from his work. "Dun' worry, I won't tell anyone."

"Thanks. And for the record, your sister likes it pink."

"I'm sure Pheles does, too~"

"…yeah", Shiro muttered. "Especially how I match his furnishings now. I could hang above the mantelpiece in the parlour, next to the Meissen porcelain candelabras."

…Shizuku had a very large mouth, and when he grinned that wide, he almost looked like a frog.

"Ye mean te say yer drapes match his carpet…?"

Shiro doubled over, and they had to stop drilling until he could hold himself still again.

"For one who's left earthly desires behind you've got one damn dirty mind, Shizu!"

"It's you who bring out the worst in me", he grinned into his hand, as if shielding his eyes from unpleasant images. "Ah, man… Heh, Kasu does, too, so I figure ye're a good match fer each other. I'd rather have yer ugly mug fer a brother-in-law than Futotsuki Makoto's." Shizuku let out a merry snicker. "Even if ye dye ye' hair ta match Pheles' bed sheets."

"I don't match his bed sheets", he said before he could think. "Which I know 'cause he never makes his bed properly." And now would be a good moment for changing subject, yes. "Speaking of which: know who'd like to be matched against his bed sheets?" he asked with an indecent gleam in his eyes. "Goggles-sensei."

Shizuku stopped drilling.

"Goggles-sensei…? Ye're jokin', right?"

"Nu-uh: she's fancied him for years. The bastard's well aware of it, too. Take a close look next time she wipes her goggles and you'll notice that handkerchief's got a small M-monogram on it", Shiro grinned. "He gave it to her once when she had a cold during a personnel meeting, and let her keep it."

"Wow… that's… disturbing." Shizuku laughed awkwardly and tried to shake the images out of his head. "Dammit Shiro, now I won't ever be able ta have Aria class without thinkin' o' her sniffin' that handkerchief when she's goin' ta sleep!"

Their laughter mingled with the humming of insects as the breeze gently rustled the white canopy, and from somewhere far away the smell of food wafted over the cracked pavement of the forlorn little square that hid in the orchard. Shiro's head throbbed glumly and threatened him with nausea if he didn't immediately drop this inappropriately merry attitude, but he didn't care. It was a perfect day.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:**
> 
> **Marvelous Mephisto** sounds adorable, I think, but Marvelous Melmo (1970-1972) was in fact intended as sex-ed for children. =P Heart-warming story, though, and it's a Tezuka, so I'd like to read it someday.
> 
> **Ribon no Kishi** (1953-1956) was translated as Princess Knight, but is read literally as "Knight of the Ribbon". And whichever translation you stick to in the end, I think "Princess Demon" sounds as good as "Demon of the Ribbon" for Mephisto.
> 
> **Daruma Otoshi** is a children's toy. It's a man built of five pieces of wood standing on top of each other, and the aim is to use a small hammer to knock away the pieces from bottom to top without toppling the head.


	42. 1/6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Launching subplot in drei, zwei, eins... ;9 (That's what the funny-looking chapter title is about.)

Walking up the winding driveway to Faust Mansion, Shiro had plenty of time to think. That is rarely a good thing. He debated back and forth how he should do this, and each turn he did things seemed more and more complicated. It was, in a sense, like when he had tried to explain to Shizuku and Ryuuji why it was obvious to flirt with- to _strategically deceive_ Mephisto. This had been equally obvious when the idea struck him, and it was equally impossible to make it sound sensible when explaining it.

Mephisto was enjoying summer holidays the way a prince would: his thin body lounged in a sun chair under a garish pink parasol in his courtyard, with an iced drink in one hand and a book in the other. The part of Shiro's mind that wasn't squirming with effort to come up with a good explanation told him that that content face called for a bucket of cold water.

"Here you go." Hopefully, he wouldn't have to explain at all. That would make it so much easier.

The demon looked at the keychain in the outstretched hand, and then up at Shiro.

…there would have to be an explanation.

"I found them in my pocket this morning, and I thought- Well, I don't know how much I really _thought_ , but it seemed… fitting. A keychain for the master of keys. You keep mementos, don't you?" He plucked the string with the dice up between his fingers. They had gone from red and white to light blue and shock pink, and at the moment it felt much more comfortable to rest his eyes on them than on Mephisto. "If you're gonna have something to remember me by, this is way better than a haircut."

He knew that look, even if he wasn't looking straight at Mephisto: a hundred thoughts at once, a cluster of connections made that flitted over the green eyes and were gone in an instant – or an eternity.

" _Or twenty-four years_ ", Shiro's mind whispered to him. Johann had had twenty-four years, and had left Mephisto a memento that would last for eternity. " _Is that what you were thinking of…?_ "

How did you tell, with that poker face? Mephisto merely put his drink on the table and held his hand out, palm upwards. The simplest gesture in the world.

Don't ever be fooled by something that looks simple and unassuming.

The keychain laid itself to rest in the naked palm with a muffled, plastic clinking. No, there was much Shiro hadn't thought of when he decided to do this: he had acted on impulse, like so many times before. He hadn't thought of how much weight those four dice carried. He hadn't thought of how much weight his actions put on them, hadn't…

"Only four?"

…hadn't thought of how much weight they would have gained if Mephisto hadn't accepted them.

"The fifth got lost somewhere along the way", he said, toying with his lighter to keep himself from fidgeting. He did _not_ want to be fidgeting right now. " _I wonder if he suspects anything?_ " Shiro mused to himself as Mephisto put the book down in his lap and poofed the key ring to his hand. " _I can never tell what's going through his mind, when he thinks that fast. Maybe he suspects I know._ " He checked a merry snicker that threatened to give him away. " _Not that he'd ever let me know that he suspects it, if he does._ " Such were the ways of their… whatever-it-was.

There's no real guidelines to define what friendship is. _Trust_ is a component most would include. _Care_ is another. Shiro couldn't claim the relation between him and Mephisto held any great measure of either, apart from the trust Mephisto placed in his abilities to read between the lines.

…on the other hand, trust and care were the basis for friendship between humans. Friendship between demon and human was uncharted territory, with no rules and no definitions: there's no need to define something that doesn't exist.

" _Fascination._ " Fascination had been his lifeline in Deep Keep when he'd convinced Mephisto to spare him, as well as the reason he kept fluttering towards the demon like the famed moth to the flame. " _Entertainment._ " There was never a dull moment around Mephisto, and he brought out the prankster side in Shiro like no one ever had. " _Challenge._ " Like particles in a thunderstorm, they gravitated towards each other with massive discharges as end result whenever they clashed. " _Heh, and most importantly_ ", he smiled at his thoughts, " _he bends the rules, and I break them._ "

There are no rules governing friendship between humans and demons, because such a friendship is based on the condition that both demon and human defy the fundamental rules of both races. The odds for that to happen? …no, Shiro didn't need any more headache than he already had. He was fine with trusting the whims of Lady Chance if Mephisto was.

The plastic dice seemed somewhat shy among the shiny metal keys, as if wondering how on earth they had come to share such fine company. Mephisto turned his key ring back and forth before half-mast eyes.

"I do all manner of things when I'm tipsy, it seems", he mused regarding the colour.

Shiro hadn't expected a "thanks". Didn't need one, either. Mephisto was a flamboyant show-off and magician of words: and for that very reason, the words he didn't say were the ones that truly mattered.

"You were a fair bit beyond tipsy, I can tell you", Shiro chuckled lightly, feeling a tension he hadn't been aware of leave his shoulders. "Well, I'll bid you a pleasant day, and be off to see my friends."

"You won't stay for a drink?"

"The only thing I'll be drinking today is water, thanks to you. Have a nice day."

"Manners? From you? Are you still intoxicated?"

"Maybe", he grinned, and flung a casual wave as he turned around and crossed the crunching gravel of the courtyard, past bright rainbows that swirled in the mist from the fountain.

Indeed, this day was perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:**
> 
> You do recognise those dice, I hope? If not, a peek at the cover of volume four might help. =)


	43. Holiday snapshots

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter refers back to **chapter 10 in _Between the End and the Beginning_**. (From here on out shortened to BtEatB because convenience. =0w0'=)

So, Shiro didn't have any friends to celebrate with when the actual graduation ceremony took place. He didn't have any relatives to greet him, and he didn't have any home to return to for family dinner. He did get a kiss from the prefect he'd bet with – followed by a furious slap across the face. And that was it for graduation.

Still, he graduated with a smile on his lips.

Mephisto, believe it or not, wasn't fond of long speeches. The one he held for the graduate students in the grand auditorium wasn't even a minute long, and was essentially a statement that the students probably wanted to leave school as soon as possible anyway, as well as a subtle hint that the school might feel the same about the students.

* * *

A school as prestigious as True Cross Academy did of course keep its premises as impeccable as its reputation. This was accomplished through an army of janitors that weeded flower beds, mowed lawns, polished banisters, emptied trash cans, pruned, raked leaves, scraped chewing gums from under benches… And much, much more. Over summer, janitors and cleaners earned Shiro's deepest respect, and he vowed quietly to himself never to sabotage for them again.

* * *

Summer wasn't all about work, of course. When Shiro finished his janitor duties for the day, he took a bath in the now empty dorm bathroom and dressed himself in the sloppiest t-shirts and shorts he could find: anything to give Mephisto opportunity to complain, when he trotted into Faust Mansion using the magical key the old goat had made _especially_ for him (after a whole lot of tongue-in-cheek whining about how far it was to walk, and how much time that took from their arcade game matches).

Shiro was becoming such a regular guest that the household had even taken to calling him Bocchan. While he wasn't sure if he should be proud or embarrassed about that, he did admit to himself that he felt rather at home in Faust Mansion. He looked misplaced in the extravagant environment (although his drapes did match many of the carpets), but the familiarity that had grown between him and the servants made him feel accepted – appreciated, even.

That is, he was appreciated until he applied his experiences from janitor work on the household, and stuck a chewing gum onto the waste bin panda's body. The familiar was rabid about trash in the first place, but that little experiment brought out a ferocity that Shiro hadn't even imagined something so small could have. The panda knocked over several candelabras, vases, paintings, chairs, doors, servants - _walls_ \- before two maids and one footman together managed to capture the crazed familiar and hold it down long enough to remove the offending trash.

The staff of Faust Mansion had to admit that, while the little master had an appreciated dampening effect on the real master, they were both essentially overgrown children that ought to be kept on a leash. Not that they ever voiced that opinion aloud.

* * *

He may not have obtained any Meister yet, but Shiro was allowed to tag along on minor missions such as exterminating goblin nests or exorcising chuchi.

…on one mission the reported chuchi were discovered to be possessed giant hornets, which prompted all exorcists to barricade themselves inside a warding circle and detonate holy water grenades in the swarm. _Non-_ possessed giant hornets were as big as Shiro's thumb, and had venom that could dissolve flesh: _possessed_ giant hornets… were a nightmare.

* * *

And if Shiro thought he would get away with sneaking horse dung into Mephisto's scarf drawer, he was sorely mistaken. He wasn't forced to pay for new ones, thank god…

…but he _was_ forced to carry the bags when Mephisto went shopping for them. The old scarves were all thoroughly washed, but the finicky bastard insisted he needed some new additions for next semester – and why not some new gloves, while he was at it? And there was a gorgeous summer collection of shoes that he simply _had_ to go through, and Armani sold the most _fabulous_ shirts just next door - and so on in eternity, or at least the eternity that was Omotesando. Not even True Cross Town's fanciest stores would suffice for Mephisto's shopping orgy, and so they had taken a tour to Tokyo's most expensive shopping district.

Shiro sank down on a bench outside the gaudy Prada boutique, sporting a look best described as that of a dead fish. His glazed eyes stared straight forward, and his mouth hung open it what could have been a limp, perpetual sigh. They had only come halfway through the Omotesando district, and he was already buried under innumerable plastic bags and gift boxes with fanciful logotypes in gold print. Never assault Mephisto's clothes. Never, _ever_ assault Mephisto's clothes.

"Yours has a taste in fine clothing too, I take it?" the gentleman next to him joked politely. He had a neat little collection of shopping bags, too, and a suit that looked like it might cost more than Shiro spent on food in an entire year. "It's not easy on one's wallet, but an investment for the happiness of both nonetheless", he smiled, eyes roaming Shiro's mountain of bought goods under aged eyelids. "A word of advice, though, for the young heart filled with passion: don't let her get you whipped too well. A treat now and then will make her happy: abundance will make her spoiled."

"Uh, no: you see, I'm-"

"I couldn't decide which pair looked best, so I got both~" Doom in a pink yukata came prancing up to him, carrying another two shopping bags, and a beaming smile that somehow gave Shiro the idea that Mephisto made him carry that mountain of crap just so he couldn't punch him. "Hold these, Shiro-pon~"

"I only have two hands – and don't call me-mmph." Only two hands, but teeth work fine for carrying bags, too. " _No, I'm not whipped. Not at all_ ", he grumbled as he loaded the tilting wall of boxes onto lower arms that were strewn with bangles of plastic bags, and carefully balanced his way after Mephisto.

Oh, he could imagine what the man on the bench was thinking. He could imagine what plenty of people in Omotesando must be thinking – and that wasn't even the worst part.

Shiro was, through unfortunate discoveries made while searching for misplaced glasses one morning, fully aware that Mephisto's silk stockings were precisely that: stockings. The full monty, garter belt and all. It didn't matter one bit that it had been the vogue for men in the 1550s: there were terrible, terrible images of a pin-up model Mephisto forever imprinted on his brain.

…and they all came out vividly – oh yes; dancing can-can over his retina – when Mephisto shoved him into a lingerie shop and asked his opinion on whether he would look better in a white garter belt with cherries, or a lacy turquoise one with white dots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:**
> 
>  
> 
>  **Omotesando** is that kind of shopping district where you wonder if they'll charge you just for looking at the clothes. Many of those boutiques are flagships for their respective chains, though, so as showpieces they're well worth a visit just to marvel at the design of the shops.
> 
> When **a guy is whipped** he's wrapped around his partner's little finger: he will do anything s/he asks. (An expression I'd never heard before, so I'm chancing some others might also be new to it.)


	44. Between you and me

Sundays were different. There was no work on Sundays: it was the prescribed day of rest in Catholic tradition, and as the pious Catholics they both were, Shiro and Mephisto used Sundays for watching anime and sparring. Shiro had decided to pursue his Doctor and Dragoon Meisters first, since those were his favourite subjects, but Knight was the class that more than any other allowed him to develop his imprint enhanced strength. It was a pastime they both could enjoy, and a refreshing break from stationary activities like watching anime and playing games.

They only sparred when the sun had left Japan to cool for the night, both for the issue of the heat and so as not to risk anybody seeing them. Shiro was considerably faster than an average human should be, and even if his physique drew looks and sighs from the female janitors it could not explain the abnormal strength in his slashes against Mephisto.

…yeah, he still got his ass handed to him. Always would. Mephisto never tired, never rested, and could toy with him till he quite literally slumped down on the baseball court they used for training ground. Then he would keep toying with him just to see if he could get a reaction.

"You can rap my head all you like", Shiro told the grass that poked into his mouth where he lay, flattened out on his belly, "I'm not moving another muscle tonight." Actually, he was considering if it wasn't warm enough to sleep outdoors. It seemed like good practice if he wanted to join Kasumi on one of her cross-country hikes in the future, which he very much wanted to.

"And if I take an ear off…?" The cool steel of the blade stopped bumping him in the head and licked against Shiro's earlobe. He tensed involuntarily. It was a leasurely touch, as of the blade pondering whether to slice his ear off of if it was too lazy.

"Don't. I need it to hold my glasses up."

The touch vanished to the sound of a low chuckle underneath the chirping of crickets and night insects. No, Mephisto wouldn't do such a thing. It was a testament to his skill, perhaps more than anything, that he could spar as intensely as they did without ever drawing blood.

Shiro grumbled into the lawn. He'd never be able to match the lissom grace of Mephisto's swordsmanship. It didn't matter that his damaged nervous system evened out the difference by enhancing his strength; Mephisto had a completely different kind of _control_ in his movements. He had _precision_ , as if the sword was part of his body – as was the ground, the air, _everything_ around him.

" _His eyes work different from a human's, and his hearing is better, too – maybe it's the same with his other senses…_ " Different _ly_ , corrected a voice in the back of his mind that sounded an awful lot like Shizuku's. " _Man, I'm so tired…_ "

Spending time with Mephisto came with one additional advantage: since demons were territorial, they perceived Shiro as Mephi- as _Prince Samael's_ property when he was nearby, and didn't bother him. As awkward as that was in theory, it was invaluable to have that opportunity to drop his guard completely. He had gotten used to shielding himself now: that didn't mean he liked it. Keeping one's emotions constantly in check was taxing, not to mention handicapping in social life.

…and in addition, Shiro had a gnawing feeling that if he locked his emotions up long enough, they would atrophy; they would wither and stiffen and become empty for real. They would become mechanical responses, reflections mirrored in a surface of polished ice.

"I've been thinking about Saburota-senpai." Shiro forced his fatigued body to make one final effort, and rolled over onto his back to make it easier to talk.

Over on the floating divan he had summoned for himself, Mephisto opened one eye to show he was listening, even if he looked like he was napping.

" _I'll never get over that unicorn._ " Shiro smiled tiredly but happily at the plushie that rested in the crook of the demon's arm. "I asked him if there was anything he needed, when I was gonna go buy groceries the other day. 'No, I'm fine', he said. It wasn't more than that, a perfectly normal reply: and still I had a feeling that he would've replied the same no matter what I'd asked him."

Mephisto's eyebrows rose some millimetre, but other than that no reaction.

"The thing is I've been a bit of a dick to him", Shiro continued, folding his hands behind his head as he spoke straight up into the stars. "I've tried apologising – you know, with what little I'm allowed to say about Deep Keep. That I was under orders not to speak seemed to make him… well, not give up the chase, but at least leave me out of it. I know he's upset about what happened, so when he gave me that 'No, I'm fine' I…"

Shopping for groceries wasn't even remotely related to the Deep Keep incident: Shiro was perfectly aware of that. He was also perfectly aware that Saburota wanted to know the truth, and that the smile he'd worn when he left Mephisto's office hadn't suited him one bit.

"I get the impression he doesn't want anybody to worry about him." And recognised that tendency all too well. "But I do. Kinda. In a weird way." He removed his glasses and rubbed at his eyes, feeling a sheen of residual sweat leave a sharp sting in them. So damn difficult to explain, these issues he always seemed to run into with people. "I think… I recognise the pattern, now that I'm aware of it, but I think I noticed it because of the imprint. I think I might have an idea of… how demons must view humans."

There it was: his reluctance to share with others beyond what was fun and superficial. …but who else could he share things like this with? Shizuku would give him that Wary Of The Demon Charmer Look, Ryuuji would get anxious and worried, Midori would quietly break his heart with eyes that wished he wouldn't be like a moth drawn by flame – and Mephisto just lay there, silent and untroubled, and listened.

"There's something eating Saburota-senpai", Shiro continued in flat, murmuring tones, "and I know that because it triggered an impulse in me once. I wanted to provoke a reaction, and what I felt then was – I think – like a milder version of what you felt with that manga magazine. That time when you were forbidden to watch or read anything." He put his glasses back on and glanced at Mephisto – who was busy braiding the tail of the unicorn, from the looks of it, but no doubt listening. "I had this _urge_ to push Saburota-senpai till he snapped. Sure, I've felt tempted to taunt people many times, but that was different." Yeah. Very different. "There was a sadistic side to it that I didn't recognise. Can imprint cause such impulses? Or is it your bad influence in general?" he added in lighter tones.

"What bad influence?" he smiled crookedly, admiring his handiwork with the unicorn. "It's all thanks to me that you've learnt to make use of your head – and to do a tie, although you insist on making it sloppy on purpose. Horribly bad manners."

"Why, it's a matter of modus vivendi, princess~" Shiro explained with a blithe smile.

"And your vocabulary has improved vastly from my bad influence, too", he observed with a cheeky smirk – which quickly dropped, along with his pointed ears. "Haah, but your implementation of it is as poor as your taste in wearing ties… Indeed, modus vivendi…"

A bubbling chuckle trembled in Shiro's throat: oh, Mephisto was a big brother, through and through. It pleased him, more than he would ever admit out loud, that the Honda siblings didn't seem to be the only ones that had adopted him as family.

"To answer your question, the imprint enhances what is already present in you: brings your darker sides out and makes them thrive. You have a quick mouth and a fondness for teasing and taunting: I wouldn't find it surprising if an imprint could make those traits take on a more demonic quality."

That… was probably true. It sounded very simple and very true when Mephisto explained it like that.

"This is what I meant when I said it's up to you to embrace or suppress your nature", he continued casually, using his magic to let the unicorn gallop along the length of the divan's backrest. "These urges you experience will not disappear: but~ the choice is yours whether you control them or they control you."

…so simple. Mephisto made it sound so simple and uncomplicated. That was one of the things Shiro really liked with the demon: he didn't judge. A human with a demon's instincts was an anomaly that would have caused plenty of reaction in other humans – fear, anxiety, repulsion, distrust; bothersome things Shiro would rather avoid. But Mephisto didn't bat an eye, didn't care one bit. And that… was relieving beyond words.

Deep down, it wasn't the effects the imprint had on him that made Shiro tense and worried. It was the effects it would have on others. It was the damage he might, invountarily, do to others. Mephisto was immune to that, or at least he could handle it much better than humans, both because he had the same instincts and because he knew why Shiro was behaving the way he did: that was another factor that made it easy to relax in his presence.

"I never thought of how many choices we make till I got to know you: which in itself involved some pretty dumb choices – but that's life, I guess", he pondered aloud. "What about Saburota-senpai? Any idea what's up with him?"

There was, he wouldn't deny, a trace of self-berating woven into his questions. He _had_ been awful to Saburota, completely unjustified and without the means to repair the damage properly. He had been awful to Yasuda and Fuji, too, and because of that Fuji had changed; Fuji had made choices that had...

Shiro closed his eyes, trying to stave off the wave of guilt that threatened to wash over him. No, he had never thought of how many choices humans made until he got to know Mephisto; or what impact those choices could have.

"Recall what I said about tradition…?" the demon asked leisurely.

"Yeah, somewhere beyond three glasses of bourbon and an unknown amount of saké…" Shiro mumbled and knitted his eyebrows together in focus. He had memorised forty sutras and nineteen chapters from the Bible for his latest Aria exam: committing words to memory was second nature by now. "Tradition is a solitary species, and it doesn't appreciate competition."

"Very good~ And why doesn't it?"

Guessing games, huh? Shiro didn't even find it strange anymore. The clues may seem far-fetched, but the conclusion always turned out to be surprisingly accurate.

"A species doesn't appreciate competition…" he mused to the stars, "…because that diminishes its own chances to survive."

"Quite so, quite so", Mephisto nodded against the plush cushions. He put the tips of his clawed fingers against each other and rested his hands on his chest, and Shiro knew immediately that he was about to embark on one of his explanations. "Let us picture Tradition as a living thing, with humans as the territory that provides it with nourishment. Other Traditions, if aggressive, may lay claim to the humans and starve one Tradition to death. Now, is there any other way that a Tradition could be killed…?"

Shiro took a moment to translate the analogy back and forth, stretching out his body as he did.

"Its territory could become uninhabitable", he murmured, struggling to see how that would apply. "The humans could… change? Uh, in some way that would make them abandon their traditions…?

"M-hm, m-hm: close, but not quite", the demon hummed. "Tradition is a convention of the human mind, a set of customs passed on from one generation to another: it exists only so long as the mind sees fit to sustain it. If enough humans were to change their minds, it would fade. Therefore, Tradition doesn't like change, and doesn't like questioning: it aims to preserve itself, and that necessitates preserving its habitat unchanged."

"Think you can cut this down to a little fewer words?" Shiro interrupted through a yawn. "Unlike you, I need more than an hour's sleep at night to be able to function." The grass was starting to feel damp and cold through his already sweaty clothes. It might still be warm enough to sleep outdoors, but before that he would need a bath. Ah, crap, and he needed to put his laundry in the washing machine, and-

"True understanding can't be built without a solid foundation", Mephisto replied with a delicately slighted edge to his voice. "Rushing things is a terribly bad habit you humans have."

"Well, we don't live forever." It was relieving to be able to relax his mind, yes: it also brought back his habit of speaking without thinking. The statement reminded him sharply of the differences between humans and demons, and what that difference had cost Mephisto once. " _Crap, should I apologise? But he doesn't know I know about Johann, and I really don't think he wants me to know about Johann…_ " And he really didn't want to hit any raw nerves, either. "So are you gonna get going with explaining, or are you waiting for me to fall asleep?" he said in his usual off-hand manner, trying to move the conversation along.

"Such a pity the imprint didn't do anything for your manners…" Mephisto sighed and massaged the base of his nose. Shiro sighed inwardly, too: no raw nerves hit, as far as he could tell. "As briefly as possible, Tradition requires a new generation to continue where the old one left off. But what if the next generation isn't willing…?"

"…don't know. Tradition dies?"

"No, it doesn't want to die: so what does it do?"

Do? There wasn't much it _could_ do, since it had no mind or muscle to force people do its bidding. Though, if it _had_ been a living thing…

"It would try to make the next generation take over where the former left off", he replied with a shrug, and rubbed his hands over his arms for warmth. "I don't see how it could do that, since it doesn't have a mind of its own."

"Oh, but it does~ It lives in every human mind, planted there through the minds of parents and relatives to grow a new host generation. Todo-kun is next in line in a famous family of exorcists, groomed with expectation to shoulder the lineage Tradition and carry it with honour: next in line to wear a uniform that doesn't quite agree with him", Mephisto explained to his stuffed unicorn with soft mirth playing in his voice. "Tradition is a form-fitting garment, and if the bearer doesn't fit the form, it will be uncomfortable to wear. What eats Todo-kun, as you put it, is the conflict between the collective mind of Tradition and the single mind of an heir unwilling to conform to it."

Shiro's mind left the cold, damp grass for a moment as the picture became clear to him. He hadn't thought of that possibility. He had figured that Saburota's red tapism and disturbing perfection must be cover for _something_ , but he'd never thought to look past personal motivations and take into account the parameters surrounding him. Trouble with family, huh? Well, Shiro could relate… Feeling trapped in a designated role and not wanting others to know…

He took a moment to inhale the night and taste the unfamiliar scents that lived in it. Mowed grass was the only one he could identify; it had become a favourite through work, and it smelled even richer when night dew saturated it. There were bats in the air, swishing soundlessly past the lone lamp that lit the baseball court for them, catching insects that-

" _Moths unto flame_ ", Shiro smiled as the light blinked yet again when a bat flew past. Yeah, there were more things than just the flame to be wary of, if you were prey. The night was full of demons; demons kept at distance by the flame that burnt white and black in its owner's heart. Such an irony… "Maybe you should bring that up with his family?" he suggested casually. "See if they're aware Saburota-senpai might not want to be an exorcist?"

"Heavens no", he dismissed without a moment's hesitation. "It isn't my place to voice opinions on family affairs."

Shiro scowled.

"You're just gonna leave him to feel miserable, then? Wasn't the welfare of your employees your topmost priority?"

"My my, such a compassionate young man~" he snickered. "Don't forget I'm a demon, Shiro."

…he had. Again. It shouldn't be possible, but he did.

"My appointment as Branch Director was controversial in itself, and came with as many restrictions as responsibilities. It's one thing to have a demon give humans orders, and organise their work: that, the Vatican can abide. A demon that counsels human families on how to raise their children – hoo~ that ice is too thin to tread. Besides, Todo-kun is not a child." Mephisto's glance slid down into the corner of his eye, training the faint green glow on Shiro. "Every human is god in her own mind, with supreme authority to choose her own path in life: to heaven, to hell…" A lax smile stretched his lips and let the light fall on sharp fangs. "It always amused me to hear humans call free will a blessing, when it could just as well be called a curse. Oh! On Friday, can we go to Mepphy Land?"

…was it any wonder Shiro forgot he was a demon, when half the time he behaved like a little kid?

"Eh, sorry, Friday won't be any good", he smiled sheepishly. "Kasumi is coming to True Cross, and we're gonna go on a date."

"Oh, I see~" The insinuation saturated every syllable that came out of that wide, toothy smirk. "Well well, I shall find other ways to entertain myself, then."

"I'm sure you'll find ways to keep yourself busy", Shiro grinned back with just as much implication.

"I will most certainly be very busy", the demon agreed, knowing exactly what Shiro was referring to.

"Yeah, no doubt about that", he snickered. "You can tell Carmilla I'm eating more fruit, but I still smoke like a chimney."

"Or I could send her over, to evaluate if the change in diet has made any difference~?"

"M-hm, right in Kasumi's face – you'd like that, wouldn't you?"

Mephisto's bubbling laughter said that yes, yes, he would like that - and had vivid images in his mind of what chaos would entail such an encounter.

"Oh, but speaking of things I would like: I'm still waiting for payback for that dream you claim you didn't appreciate", he said with an expectant grin.

"I _didn't_ appreciate it." Nope: he could feel his intestines squirm at the mere thought of it.

"Keep telling yourself that", he said sweetly. "I'm still waiting for retaliation~"

Shiro shook his head, scrubbing coarse hair back and forth against the hands folded under it.

"I'm not even gonna try, man. There's no way I could ever top you." Crap. That didn't sound right. "Top you for that." Still crap, judging by Mephisto's wheezing laughter. "Top you _after_ that…?" Yeah, the old goat was almost falling off the divan now. "Top that… top the… top… What the fuck am I trying to say…?" he groaned and rubbed his tired eyes. Time to sleep, definitely.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:**
> 
> **Modus vivendi** means "way of living". At face value, that's it: the way you choose to live. As an expression, it denotes a compromise two disagreeing parties make that will allow them to coexist peacefully, even if they still disagree. Both meanings are applicable here, I think? =P
> 
> **Red tapism** is too much official formality (the expression supposedly traces its roots to the red tape tied around important dossiers in government business in 16th-century Spain, so as to separate them from less important documents that were held together with common rope or string).


	45. Star-crossed lovers

Love is like lobotomy. It's not a very flattering thing to say, but hell if it isn't true.

Especially at the Tanabata festival.

* * *

_Noble Tentei, Emperor of the Heavens, had everything a man of his standing could wish for. He had forests of jade and meadows of coral flowers, a garden with peaches that granted immortality, and garments whose beauty outshone that of a thousand dawns. It was Orihime, the seventh of the Emperor's nine daughters, who wove the fabric and made the clothes for him, and thus she was called the Weaving Maid._

_One day, Emperor Tentei found Orihime weeping by Amanogawa, the river of heaven. She grieved, she told him, that she had been so absorbed in her work that she had not had time to find love. This saddened Emperor Tentei immensely, and he arranged for his daughter to be wed to the young cowherd, Hikoboshi, who lived across the river._

_It was a marriage whose tenderness grew with time, like the sweetness of the peaches in the Emperor's garden. However, the Emperor himself was not happy. Orihime, who had put all her effort into weaving, was now spending time with her husband and neglected her duties. As punishment, the Emperor of the Heavens decided to separate the couple, and returned Hikoboshi to the other side of Amanogawa. Only once every year, on the seventh day of the seventh month, did Emperor Tentei let a boatman ferry his daughter over to her husband so that they could be together: if Orihime had put enough effort into her weaving. If not, he would make the river of heaven would flood, so that the boatman would not be able to make the journey across._

* * *

"But if that happens, she'll just 'ave some magpies make a bridge for 'er so she can walk across. That's prob'ly a later addition ta the tale, if ya ask me. Somebody really wanted a happy endin'." Not only did Kasumi know a hundred tales: she told each one with minute care to every word and inflection, and the overall effect was amazing. Just how much it did for the story's mood was evident in how markedly her voice shifted when she left storytelling mode.

"How?" Shiro asked.

"How what?"

"How does she walk on birds?"

"On their wings, o' course. They line up wing tip ta wing tip and span the river."

"…but wouldn't they be flapping their wings to stay airborne?"

"Just shut up, would ya?" She flicked the cross on his glasses string with a playful smile. "It's a fairy tale: ye're not supposed ta think too much about the details."

"Alright, I'll shut up", he smiled back. "Now I see why you got that streamer. Cool thing, too."

"It's an umbrella, actually." She wiggled the rod that supported the flat shape of a fanciful magpie, whose tail consisted of long silk strips embroidered with green and blue. "Though it works better as a streamer."

* * *

A fairy tale indeed. True Cross transformed during festivals, like the idiomatic caterpillar turned a butterfly. The sky drowned in bright banners and flags that clustered the air above the streets, climbing as high as to the sixth floor of the towering houses. Bridges became giant garlands strung from building to building, or arcing across the river like rainbow-scaled dragons.

The people transformed, too. Grey suits were left to hang in favour of yukatas, and humble housewives bloomed into the most exquisite flowers garbed in bright colours and coiffed hair. The festive spirit made eyes glow and drummed the city's excited heartbeat against the streets with the clop-clop of geta and running children. It was summer, it was festival, and life was beautiful.

Love is, indeed, like lobotomy. Shiro couldn't remember when he had last been this happy, and he didn't really care to remember either. Happiness is a thing of the moment, like the jittery wings of a dragonfly, and is best enjoyed without thoughts of neither past nor future.

They watched the Taiko drummers on the central street parade, where it was so crowded the Kasumi had to climb up a lamppost to see. They watched the folk dancers that came next, and Shiro narrowly escaped her attempts to drag him in to dance with them: _she_ still danced, though, and let him enjoy the baffled faces of the performers when she joined in.

They went to the big Shinto shrine north of the central district, where the air was thick with incense smoke that made Shiro's eyes water. They both wrote down wishes on coloured paper slips provided there, and hung them on the bamboo arrangement that had been put in the courtyard for the festival. Kasumi prayed for improved artisan skills; Shiro prayed for improved aim when shooting in motion.

"That's got nothing ta do with arts an' crafts!" she laughed when he'd told her.

"It could have", he defended through his freshly lit cigarette. "If I were really good at it, I could shoot patterns into the targets."

"Oh, I see: s'gotta be _manly_ art, eh?" she grinned in that particular way that he found so cute yet promised hell for whoever underestimated her.

"Not _manly_ , there's female Dragoons, too: just…" He shrugged. "I'm a practical guy; art's just decorative."

That set her off laughing like it was the most hilarious thing in the world. People they met along the sidewalk cast their strange looks away from the lunatic – really, even when it was festival that stiff varnish of propriety stayed on.

"It's not the _result_ ye're after when ye make art, dumbass! It's the _creation_! Why d'ya think I sell off all the stuff I make?" she asked with smiling eyes and gleaming teeth. "I like making it, but I don't wanna own it. It's like life, ya know?" She plucked a flower off a pot arrangement and tucked it into her hair. "Ye can shape it into whatever ya like, but once it's complete there's nothing left ta do but ta toss it inta the fire an' start again on something new."

"…but is it ever complete?" He tried to put it lightly, but the part of him that really did wonder still betrayed its presence. "Isn't life a sculpture we continue to shape till the bitter end?"

"Well put: the sculpture that's neva' finished. Might come a time when yer hands're too weak an' tremblin' ta shape it, though." She braided her fingers into his: not the slim fingers of a lady, but the hard, scarred ones of a woman who earned her living with her hands. "An' I guess that's when ye're done, whether ye're pleased with the result or not."

"I suppose it is like that – makes sense when you say it, at least, but that could be your persuasive skills." He got an elbow in his ribs for that, and almost collided with another couple in the street when he dodged. "About not owning stuff and such: I don't know, since I haven't tried, but I think I could like travelling roads the way you do." He flicked away a coal tar that had taken too much interest in his glasses string. "I'd like to try it, at least – if you're okay with me tagging along, that is?"

Please, please, please…

"O' course!" she beamed. "Ye're family, ya dumbass. Besides, we could use somebody that looks normal. I'm not allowed in at public baths anymore, an' Shizzy gets accused o' stealing in grocery shops from time ta time, so ye could do the shopping an' fetchin' water", she chuckled wolfishly. "An' maybe cook the food while ye're at it…?"

"Yes, yes: and I could heat the water over fire and mix wild flowers into it before you bathe."

"An' wash our clothes."

"Of course: and polish Shizu's piercings."

When they had come down to the details of how he'd strap a flowerpot onto his head, so he could grow flax and make oil to treat their carvings with, they were laughing so hard they had to support themselves against a bus stop.

"I think we've taken this far enough, haven't we?" Kasumi wheezed through her guffaws.

"Yeah, I think we have."

"Anyway, ye can tag along next time ye've got holidays, if ya like."

If he liked? Oh come on, there was only one way to respond to that offer.

"Count me in!"

* * *

Kasumi was the only person other than Mephisto that he made an exception for, and let his emotions roam free. With her, he _felt_ free. Like there wasn't a care in the world. Like that impish smile turned all shadows bright and-

-turned eating dumplings into a chopstick fencing match. He didn't even know when it began, only that they had aimed for the same dumpling and knocked their chopsticks together. Then it escalated, as all fun and silly things do.

"Oh, this means war."

"An' I'm winning it."

"You wish."

"No need ta wish if ye've got skill."

The battleground was a paper plate on a wobbly little folding table, and the last poor dumpling slipped around as chopsticks stabbed and were deflected.

"Banzai!" And while Shiro's chopsticks wrestled with hers, Kasumi's free hand plucked the needle out of her hair and skewered the dumpling. "I win!"

"That is _not_ fair play!" he laughed.

"A girl's gotta make use of 'er assets~" She twirled her prize with a grin.

"That sounds… pervy."

"Yer mind makes it sound pervy", she returned with a playfully arced eyebrow. "Women have more assets than tits, ya know. We're smart, inventive, hard-working – an' considerate." She tipped the dumpling towards him.

"And you can make us guys eat out of your hands", he grinned as he locked eyes with her, leaned forward and bit off half of it.

"An' we enjoy doing it~"

Love… Yeah. Shiro could've been ploughed down by a rickshaw and he wouldn't even have noticed: with the needle gone, Kasumi's hair unfolded onto her shoulders in a slow-motion fall. It was like she transformed before his eyes, became younger, softer… and when her lips slipped the remaining dumpling off the needle, Love and its raunchier relatives completely short-circuited Shiro's brain.

"Ye should see ye' face", she grinned, cheek puffed out with food. "I can read eeevery thought in ye' head, ya know~"

"…I need to figure out if there's any assets guys have that can counter the effect of women's", he laughed into his hands as he tried to wipe the daydream off his face.

"No, don't do that – the brain-deadness is what makes guys so cute!"

"I don't wanna be cute!"

"Tough luck, 'cause ye are, Fuji~"

* * *

Dusk fall lit myriads of lanterns on the city's streets and bridges; lanterns hung with streamers until they looked like gigantic, colourful jellyfish swimming in the breeze. There wouldn't be any stars to watch, neither the _Weaving Maid_ nor the _Cowherd_ constellation. As if to mimic the missing lights, the black river cast the billowing lantern reflections up at the clouds.

They crept down over the stone riverbank, down to the streak of quiet darkness that was barricaded on both sides by tents and stands and the smell of food. …and at the docks, the water clicked its wet tongue and lapped at an armada of small chokkibune that lay waiting to ferry festival visitors out on the river.

Shiro helped her into the boat, the geta being a bit too unfamiliar on her feet to let her jump from the bridge. It wobbled slightly on the water, sending a warning jolt through his gut. It might not be too romantic to get motion sick on a date…  
  
As if that would stop him in his current state.

It was a magic night. Shimmering lantern light licked softly over the sides of the boat as it clove the waters, propelled at steady speed by the boatman's ro. The sound of music and voices rolled down the riverbanks with a muffled effect, as if it were but a lively backdrop to their private sphere: a sphere where Kasumi's body heat breathed through his clothes.

This was too good. Fairy tale material. Romance didn't happen like this in real life. _Nothing_ could work out this perfectly in real life.

…and in response to Shiro's lack of faith in the universe, the river of heaven flooded. It began with pinprick ringlets spread on the water; few at first, then more and more until the pelting rain had turned smooth surface into a hissing porcupine hide.

"Seems there's only one magpie to get Orihime to Hikoboshi tonight", Shiro smiled as Kasumi huddled close to him to shelter them both under her impractical umbrella. "Where did you get this thing anyway?"

"Bought it from an umbrella maker I know in town. 'E's brilliant, 'e is: a genius, but business is always bad 'cause he keeps makin' these outrageous designs that barely cover even one person." She cast an eye up at the bird-shape that sprawled above them and dripped a steady stream of water on her yellow yukata sleeve. "As a fellow craftsman I kinda feel I should help out so the kid can eat, at least."

"I think I need thank the guy for making his outrageous designs", he smirked and sneaked his arm around Kasumi: to fit them in better under the umbrella, of course.

"Bet ye're in league with each other", she laughed, sound bouncing off the water like the pelting raindrops. "Maybe that's yer counter-ability? Teamin' up against the enemy - not that women would be yer enemy. The umbrella maker's a ladies' man, just like you – an' his name's Shiro, too!"

"Whoa, you mean I've got a doppelgänger?"

"What's that?"

Ah, that's right. One of those words he'd picked up from Mephisto.

"Means you've got a double, or an identical twin that isn't your biological one", he explained while quietly thanking Emperor Tentei for making it rain. "It's German, I think."

"Well, ye're not doubles, that much I can say. Umbrella-Shiro's got long black hair an' looks kinda like a girl."

"And luckily, you prefer Shiros with pink hair."

"Yep~" Kasumi leaned into his embrace and set his heart flittering madly in his chest. "Which reminds me: I heard ye' horseshit prank went well. So ye're expecting payback from Pheles now, or…?"

Shiro burst out laughing, so loud it echoed off a bridge that hid in the grey veil ahead of them.

"No, he's already paid me back for that. You're not gonna believe me", he chuckled, scratching the back of his head in slight embarrassment. "He made me come along for shopping, to carry his bags."

"Doesn't sound that bad…?"

"No – until he went shopping for underwear." Yep, that was a tad too shameless even for Kasumi, who tried to hide her embarrassment in her hand – and looked absolutely adorable in the process. "You've noticed those tights he wears to his principal's uniform, right? Well, they're not tights. They're stockings. Like, lady underwear stockings." Kasumi doubled over in uncontrolled laughing spasms, and Shiro had to bend with her or get a shower of water inside his collar. "And he made me stand there in front of the personnel and help him decide which colours to choose. I thought I was gonna die of shame right there."

They laughed, as only lobotomised young lovers can do, and the rain persisted; a steady pelt that whipped evening mist out of the water and merged river, banks, and sky into a haze of pearl grey. It cooled the air, the chill eating through the light clothing they both wore, and they huddled closer still. Tiny droplets nested in Kasumi's sun-bleached hair, glistening in the dim light of lanterns floating through from another world. Another world where demons were stretching their claws and rising to claim the night hours.

Tch, it was like Mephisto's stupid fairy tale references. Shiro wasn't Sleeping Beauty, no, he was Cinderella: allowed to go to the ball, but only for a limited time. He receded inwards, disconnected his mind from emotion and sharpened it into an alert, unforgiving ring wall. Put on the mask. Paint on the smile. Act the role of a lifetime and hope Kasumi didn't notice anything off. Maybe he could blame his stiffness on being tired? Maybe he could-

"I really like ya, Shiro", she whispered into his shoulder, through the susurrus rain - through his callousness and through his heart. "I didn't think I'd fall in love like this, but…" Her arm untangled from the wet fabric and slid around his waist. "With you it feels right."

Yes, it felt right; and that feeling flooded him like wildfire. He loved her, loved her so much his heart could burst, and-

"I love you", he breathed, surrendering himself to the sweet intoxication of the feeling. "I really love you."

* * *

…and what better way to end a day of celebrating true love, than by escaping the rain in a cinema seat and watch a young woman kick ass? Shiro did admit, he liked the _Sister Street Fighter_ series: he just hadn't expected Kasumi to like them, too. Then again, he could easily picture her replacing Shihomi Etsuko as the main character: just as cool, and just as cute.

Problem cropped up quickly, however, as the universe apparently still hadn't forgiven Shiro's lack of faith. When they got to the cinema, the poster with _Sister Street Fighter: Fifth Level Fist_ was taped over with a handwritten sign that said SOLD OUT.

"Well, guess we'll hav'ta go check what other films they show the next hour."

Sure, but… Come on! What were the odds? Celebrating couples didn't go out to watch action films! How could every single ticke-

Oh, there was _one_ possibility…

Shiro patted Kasumi on the shoulder and signalled for her to give him a moment. He trotted over to the ticket booth, where a bulldog-cheeked man fit narrowly in amongst the shelves of snacks and beverages. Before he addressed the man, Shiro donned the professional look he had perfected for giving first-year students wrong directions.

"Good evening, sir. I have a message to deliver to Mr. Faust", he said in formal tones and hoped his hunch hadn't been wrong. "I'm aware it's past office hours, but my employer insisted that it be delivered urgently." He waved a folded festival programme impatiently, too quickly for the vendor to see what it really was. "Businessmen are always keen on doing business, you know?"

Bingo. The bulldog-cheeked man hobbled out of his booth through a side door, and motioned for them to follow him. Theatre number two appeared to be their destination, and when the deep brown door opened they were struck by the sickeningly sweet smell of sugar- and caramel-coated popcorns. The man bowed with some effort and moved to let them pass: good thing, for if he had peered into the theatre he would've caught Mr. Faust sprawled comfortably in a pink armchair that hovered above the empty seats.

"Fancy meeting you here", Shiro smirked as he trotted in, gratefully relaxing all his inner defences. "I thought you were gonna be busy all day?"

"I have been busy all day", Mephisto confirmed in their two-man lingo. "I'm here to take a well-earned break from my hard work. Why, and a pleasure to meet you, Miss Honda."

"Pleasure ta meet ya too, Sir Pheles", she replied and mirrored his nod. From the way she seemed to bite the insides of her cheeks, Shiro guessed she was thinking about stockings.

He wasn't wearing any now, though. It was a holiday, after all, and he'd slipped himself into an extremely glossy blue yukata patterned with monkshood.

"Mind if we join you?" Shiro held out the yen notes he'd intended to pay their tickets with.

"Not at all~" Mephisto tucked the money into his obi with a pleasant smile, and tossed a lollipop wrapper to his wastebasket familiar. "And how has your day been? Busy…?"

"Yeah, we've been at it all day", Kasumi replied, and forced Shiro to keep his facial muscles in check. Oh god, she had no idea... "It's been great, though. An' it seems I'll be stealin' yer janitor away next holiday. Say, a little bird tells me ya spar tagether?" She leaned onto the backrests of the sixth row and crossed her legs. "Think ya could do somethin' bout 'is stamina before I take 'im out on the roads? As it is, 'e's pretty awful."

Awful? Well yeah, if you compared him to a pilgrim that walked Honshu from tip to tip every year.

"Yes, his stamina is quite lacking." Kasumi didn't know Mephisto well enough to detect the lewd undertone in that response, but Shiro did. "He's a stubborn young man, though. I've tried to my wit's extent to persuade him that we should work on his stamina – brought in help from experts, even – but he simply won't submit."

Shiro tensed where he stood. No, no, _no -_ Mephisto was _not_ bringing up the succubus incident on an occasion like this!

"Perhaps you would have better success convincing him?" said Mephisto as an Idea – one that made Shiro's stomach drop down into his pelvis – flashed across the green eyes. "After all, nothing beats a sweetheart's tongue. I could show you a few exercises that I think he would agree to, and which would help improve his stamina."

It took all Shiro's self control to keep his face in check. What the _hell_ was that old goat implying…?!

"Sounds good ta me." Yeah, if you didn't have a clue what stamina the asshole of a demon was talking about! "S'it advanced stuff, or something ye could show me tenight?"

No no no hell no there had to be some way of-

"The difficulty can be adjusted depending on how well he takes to it, but I could definitely go through the basics with you tonight. After the film, we could- Ow! Ill-bred, idiotic…!"

The panda, which was being generously fed on lollipop wraps, had leapt to catch the expertly aimed paper ball Shiro had shot at Mephisto's head.

"I just made up my mind: I wanna train to improve my stamina." He glared daggers at the _criminally_ smug smirk that crept up on the demon's face. "And since Kasumi won't be here at all times, I'd prefer to train with you."

"Really~?"

There were many things Shiro would have liked to do there and then. Sadly, there was only one option that wouldn't look strange to Kasumi.

"Yes, _really._ "

* * *

Shiro cooled his temper during the film, which was quite enjoyable. Afterwards, they parted ways for the night; Kasumi heading to her hostel and Shiro and Mephisto heading to the Academy. Mephisto even gave him a ride back in his limousine - and once on campus ground, the demon fished out an envelope from within his yukata sleeve.

"I didn't want to mention it in front of your sweetheart, but~ the invitation does permit a Mrs. Faust, if she wants to come."

The whole situation was suspicious, on so many levels: the furtive smirk, the strange hint, the expensive envelope paper…

"If 'Mrs. Faust' will have to wear a dress, she just might yank off her husband's beard", Shiro informed curtly as he flipped out his knife to open the mysterious letter.

"I think you'd look better in formal suit; especially with that charming hair colour."

"You know, my knife just might slip if you-" The creamy paper unfolded in his hands, as expensive and important-looking as the envelope it had travellled in. "No way!" No way, no way, no way – Shiro had to read the letter several times… But the stupid grin never left his lips. "Hell yeah, Mrs. Faust is coming along!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  **Tanabata** is a festival of the weaving spirit, beautiful fabric and true love, commemorating an originally Chinese legend called _The Cowherd and the Weaving Maid_. Those are actually two stars, Altair and Vega, and the river of heaven is the Milky Way. Tanabata is celebrated on the 7th day of the 7th month, when the moon forms a crescent shape and thus can act as a boat to let them meet, but it seems like dates vary: some regions begin celebrations as early as 1st of July, and some don't celebrate until 8th of August. So, eh, no exact date for the True Cross region: beginning of July-ish.
> 
> (…yep, Mephisto asked Shiro out to Mepphy Land on a festival celebrating true love. x) )
> 
>  **Chokkibune** is a kind of water taxi that was used in the Edo period.
> 
>  **Ro** is a special type of single oar that appears to be very difficult to handle properly: but if you can, a single oarsman can allegedly manoeuvre a boat weighing well over a tonne with ease.
> 
>  **Shiro the umbrella maker…** If you haven't read a manga titled _Adekan_ , you have my recommendation now. I'd say it's a sort of heir to _Pet Shop of Horrors_ in the way it's told: short stories that combine into a greater one, featuring a beautiful mix of humour, horror, and message (and so much hinted BL that your eyes will catch fire). Not to mention the artwork is absolutely stunning. 0_0


	46. Miss Freud

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains some very weird dialogue because I felt like making something fun out of this event.
> 
> I've been abroad for a fair bit and there is this one thing people often ask: **does the Swedish Chef in The Muppet Show speak Swedish?** The answer is that he doesn't, but Swedish and English get quite funny when mixed. (If you didn't know already, Dimwit is Swedish.) Many Swedish words overlap with English words in spelling and/or pronunciation, which leads Swedes to think they mean the same thing. They don't. They really don't. But they're funny, so here you go. **All examples used are authentic mistakes.**
> 
> There is a Swenglish glossary at the bottom. =)

True Cross Academy was bigger. True Cross Academy was more elegant. Still, True Cross Academy had never made Shiro feel what he felt before the mastodon chunk of glass and steel they were approaching. The brown shoebox of a building may have been ugly, but it filled his gut with flame-winged butterflies.

"I thought it would look different", he said as the pink limousine drove another metre forward. They were but one of many in the long queue of gaudy cars filing past the entrance. "Imperial Theatre sounds like a much fancier building." ...holy shit, was that an actual red carpet? They were going to disembark on a red carpet? Shiro swallowed hard as the butterflies in his gut grew into seagulls.

"And it was; before some tasteless ingrate of a bureaucrat decided it should be demolished and replaced with this mediocre cube." Something Mephisto seemed to take as a personal insult, judging by how he crinkled his nose. "Thankfully the inside retains some degree of flair."

…uncomfortable. Uncomfortable, uncomfortable, uncomfortable: Shiro would never grasp why it was necessary to dress up in such suits. And bow ties…? Was there even a point to bow ties, or were they just for making the shirt collar scratch his neck?

"Fidgety, are we?" Mephisto observed in that special kind of voice that gave him away as an older brother. "Relax, Shiro. Act natural and you will look natural."

"How do I act natural in this?" He gestured at the suit Mephisto had forced him to rent. "I'm a throw-away street kid; this is as far from natural as I get."

"Confidence, little lion~" The finger that landed on the tip of Shiro's nose was clothed in the burgundy gloves he'd bought when they went shopping together. They were tailor made to match the scarf he wore outside a purple-striped suit and some god-awful ruffled shirt. "Clothes make the man, but it takes a man of confidence to make the clothes. One can look dashing in anything if you believe you do."

Shiro took in Mephisto's appearance in one glance – stripes and frills and all – and reluctantly admitted that there might be some truth to the claim. Confidence, confidence.

"Right." He peered out the tinted car window and adjusted his bow tie, only to have Mephisto adjust it again when he did it wrong. "Our turn next, yes?" It was indeed a red carpet - there was even a guy in uniform waiting to open the car door for them. Damn, this was- " _Relax_ ", he told himself as the limousine pulled closer to the entrance. " _Welcome to the VIP world, act like you belong._ " …easier said than done.

The July heat hit Shiro physically when he disembarked the car, and the butterflies flitted wildly in his gut. He didn't even register if anybody was looking at him: all he could think of was that he sported pink hair and formal suit. God, he looked ridiculous. He could feel them from all around, the needling eyes of people who _did_ belong, people who _did_ have their own suits, people who stripped his pretence right off with a single glance and dismissed him as-

"O-oi…!"

But Mephisto merely shot him a smirk glinting with mischief and continued to drag him along the red carpet. Arm in arm. Smack in the middle of Tokyo. _Hell no_. Flustered, Shiro matched his pace and unhooked himself from the demon.

"And that didn't make this any less embarrassing", he muttered under his breath and tried to erase the scene from time by pretending it never happened.

"Dithering doesn't become you, little lion." Mephisto's voice held the same expectant bounce as his confident gait. "What happened to charging heedlessly into battle, hmm~? We have many a battle ahead of us this evening; many a foreign territory to raid and conquer by the twofold law that all is fair in love and war~!"

Oh, no need to worry about looking embarrassing when Mephisto was around. The flamboyant principal became the main attraction the moment he stepped onto the red carpet, and owned the show every step of the way up to the glass doors below the giant banderol:

_Miss International 1976  
_

* * *

There was no telling if the beauty pageant was heaven, or hell. The VIP seats were the best in the theatre, of course. They allowed them see everything on the grand stage, where the world's most beautiful women lined up time and again, like a mouth-watering buffet that Shiro was allowed to see but not taste; the national costume parade, the evening gowns, oh _god_ , and the _swimsuits_ …! He couldn't tell which one he liked best – it was such an onslaught on his senses that he very nearly suffered a nosebleed over Miss France. How did Mephisto put up with this? It was bad enough a temptation for a human – what wouldn't it be like for a demon?

" _I'm never gonna criticize his restraint again._ " He shot one quick glance at his friend. Mephisto kept a perfectly composed demeanour, outwardly, but there was a… a _heat_ , a nearly visible sensation roiling in his presence, and it made Shiro think of large predators coiling up before pouncing on prey. " _Can't be easy, that._ "

When the break was announced, people rose to file out into the foyer for some air. Mephisto rose, too, but not to join the throng on its way to the foyer. He meandered out to the side aisle, in the direction opposite to the rest.

"Oi, Mephisto – where are we going?" Shiro felt a little like a chick anxiously following the mother hen as he trailed after him.

"Johann", Mephisto said over his shoulder, stopping for a trail of guests to pass.

"What about him?"

"Officially, I am Johann Faust the fourth: headmaster, businessman, and multi-millionaire." Mephisto sent him a conspirational wink. "The masks one has to wear in public, you know?"

"Got it. Johann." ...no, it didn't feel right on his tongue. "Where are we going?"

* * *

VIP. Three letters that open doors to the land of milk and honey: or to the backstage parlour where all the misses gathered to mingle. Deep red carpeting spread before their feet, muffling all sound of polished dress shoes and high heels. A soft, warm light saturated the room from lamps concealed behind tinted glass panels, mounted on sequoia walls with patterns like frozen flames embedded in the wood. The room wasn't that large, but the high ceiling dotted with spotlight stars gave the impression they were in a grand castle hall.

It was like watching TV. Gorgeous dresses on even more gorgeous women, and dapper men in formal suits with drinks in hand; nodding, smiling, circulating between groups or filing along the buffet tables that shyly pushed up against the walls. It wasn't something that existed in real life. It was like film, so far removed from anything Shiro had ever seen. It was-

" _Not fair…!_ "

*bonk* *bonk* *bonk*

Access to the VIP-room, yes. Mingling with all the misses, yes. Did they speak Japanese? No.

*bonk* *bonk* *bonk*

Shiro had found a suitable secluded niche near one of the emergency exits, where he could wallow in self-pity without anybody wondering why he was head-butting a wall. Or so he thought.

"Just what are you doing?"

At least it was a familiar voice. Shiro let his forehead rest against the red, mottled wood and turned his head to shoot a dismal look at Mephisto, who'd just come out of the nearby lavatories.

"I'm in a room with forty-five of the world's most beautiful women, and the only one I can speak to is Miss Japan. And what are _you_ doing? Isn't that...?"

The women's lavatories? Why yes. And it was most likely a woman's lip-gloss Mephisto was wiping off his chin with one of his embroidered handkerchiefs.

"I'm practising my French", he replied with a charming wink.

"With Miss Venezuela?" Shiro observed, and gave him a knowing smirk as said Miss discreetly snuck out from the same lavatories. So much for Mephisto's restraint.

"French is an appreciated tongue regardless of nationality." Oh yes, Shiro could imagine that tongue was very appreciated. "Why don't you seize the opportunity to freshen up your English, rather than abuse the walls? The lovely Miss America over there is the same age as you."

"No way: I'm not gonna make an idiot of myself by trying to chat with someone who's spoken English all her life." Even if she did indeed look lovely, with those heavy curls hugging her face. "I was having a very interesting chat with this wall before you came and interrupted us."

Mephisto snickered softly, the way you do at recalcitrant little children – the only thing missing was the patronising pat on the head. Shiro did feel like a dumb kid, though. He had never had any problem approaching girls; girls had never had any problem understanding Japanese, on the other hand. You don't realise just how much humans depend on language until it's taken from you – or how quickly confidence evaporates when you can't communicate what you mean.

"That leaves another forty girls that aren't native speakers either." Mephisto scanned the parlour with pursed lips, gaze drifting idly from one young woman to the other. "Blondes or brunettes?" he asked, as casually as if he had been inquiring if Shiro preferred green tea or red tea.

" _Am I at a beauty pageant or a brothel…?_ " There didn't seem to be any difference, from a demon's point of view. "I'm Japanese: all I've ever seen is girls with black hair, or bleached hair", he said with a shrug. "Blondes."

"Something exotic, then… Oh, I know just the one~" His face lit up like a candle: one of those candles for birthday cakes, small and in bright colours that children like. "Here we go!" And then he grabbed Shiro's wrist.

Oh this wasn't going to end well, not at all, not with that happy look on Mephisto's face. They passed the long line of buffet tables, where Mephisto somehow put a glass of rosé wine into his hand – "The best cure for nervous hands is to occupy them with something~" – and zigzagged between guests over the red carpeting while Shiro tried to gather his nerves together. This would be a piece of cake. Just talking, right? Just practising English. No harm in that. Nothing to be nervous about. Not at all.

" _I'm gonna screw up._ " Yep. " _Act natural my ass. No confidence in the world's gonna magically teach me better English._ "

Did Mephisto give half a damn about that? No. He dragged him across the parlour like a too energetic dog eager to share an especially exciting find with its owner.

" _…maybe he_ _is_." An energetic dog? Yeah, sure. Mephisto was enjoying himself, and royally so. But more importantly, Shiro realised, while staring blankly at the bobbing hair curl before him: " _He wants me to enjoy myself._ "

Mephisto had invited him into this extravagant world of celebrities and luxury because he took pleasure in pushing Shiro outside his comfort zone, surely: but also because he wanted him there. He wanted to spend time with him – _enjoyed_ spending time with him… Shiro's gaze wandered downwards from the swaying curl, touched the hairs that curved sharply from the nape of Mephisto's neck, and landed on the burgundy glove. His wrist was held firmly in the paradox of that gloved hand: firm as concrete, and gentle as butterfly wings. The touch of a demon that didn't want to harm humans.

" _He did the same with Johann: snuck into the Emperor's harem, stole food off the Pope's table, raised hell just for the fun of it…_ " For twenty-four years: longer than Shiro had been alive. Long enough to be called a lifetime. Long enough to forge bonds that could never be replaced. " _Am I just repeating...?_ "

Without even meaning to, Shiro looked away from the hand holding his. It was uncomfortable, those matters he had no right to pry into; yet, his ever-curious thoughts wandered there whenever he let them stray from a given track. Was he really Mephisto's friend? Or was he a reflection of the friend he'd lost?

"Who's that?" Shiro asked, giving his thoughts a new track to run. There was an auburn-haired girl, a textbook wallflower, who stood by herself and plucked shyly with untouched hors d'oeuvres. Nobody seemed to pay attention to her, and she looked like she wanted nothing more than to fade through the wall: Shiro kinda felt he could relate. Maybe he'd have better luck talking to her...?

"Miss New Zealand, I think – but that's not important. There's a young lady over here that you should meet. God kväll, fröken Törnkvist." Mephisto switched abruptly to a melodious language Shiro had never heard. A slender, honey-blonde girl turned in surprise, revealing dark-shaded eyes bluer than a clear summer sky. Rows of bangles jingled on her wrists, and in her surprise she didn't notice that the plate she held was tippi-

"Försiktigt", Mephisto admonished softly, having caught her hand, and steadied the plate. His gentlemanly charm wasn't quite on highest effect, but not far from it; the girl visibly turned into putty under his gaze.

"God kväll", she echoed hesitantly and made a strange, bobbing motion in her knees. "Tack ska ni ha, öh, herr…?"

"My name is Johann Faust." Mephisto replied with a polite bow, switching languages effortlessly. "Could I trouble you to speak English? My Swedish hasn't been in use for a while, and I think my nephew would find it a great opportunity to practise."

Sky-blue eyes settled on Shiro, and the butterflies in his gut confirmed that he did indeed like exotic blondes.

"Your nephew?" She looked from one to the other – how the hell did Mephisto expect to pass them off as relatives? – and broke into a smile that was coy and unabashedly bright all at once. "You don't look like each other at all."

"I wonder which one of us is most grateful for that?" Mephisto smiled back. "You must pardon me; I don't know your full name…?"

"Oh." She faced Shiro and made the same bobbing motion again. "My name is Marie-Louise Törnkvist."

"My name is Fujimoto Shiro", he said, awkwardly repeating what she had done: it seemed to be the Swedish equivalent of a bow.

"That's women's way of greeting", Mephisto informed with a merry chuckle, and gave him a light pat in the back. "Men bow in Sweden, too." Lovely, he had already made an ass of himself. "Good icebreaker, though", he added furtively in Japanese. "Well", and back to dapper English, "I merely wanted to express my appreciation properly. Both my nephew and I are rooting for you, Miss. I find there is a certain natural grace that comes with the modesty of the North, and I think that is precisely what this kind of contest needs: natural beauty." Oh god he was such a smarmy bastard… And yet somehow he pulled it off. How the heck did he do that? "Now, I think I will have treat myself to some of the other delicacies in the buffet, before they run out – excuse me~"

Pushing the chick out of the nest and hoping it can fly, huh?

"Excuse my uncle: he is special." Shiro hoped his English wasn't too accented. " _…says the guy with pink hair_ ", he groaned mentally. "This idea is his, also." He smoothed over the spiky mess of hair demonstratively with an excusing smile. "And this." He touched the crosses that hung on his glasses string. "But we does- We do… think you should have crown."

"Oh, thank you kindly." And without warning, she reached out and felt his hair. "I'm so envious of Japanese hair. It's so thick and strong." Seeing the baffled look on his face, she pulled her hand back quickly. "Åh, sorry. I forget, you Japanese are much more polite."

"I'm not so polite", he said truthfully, smiling as he did. "But you gave me surprise. Japanese girls don't do- don't act like this."

"And Swedish men don't act like you", she smiled back with a perfect set of white teeth. "Is it rude if I ask how old you are?"

"No. I'm nineteen." Not what she had expected, from the looks of it. "How old you thought I was?"

"I'm sorry… I thought you were fifteen at most", she said between multiple shy excuses. "It's so hard to tell age on Asians. …how old do you think I am?"

Shiro's guess was closer than hers had been, but he was surprised to hear she was as "old" as twenty-one.

"I actually had to show my leg to be let in here", she told him with a merry laugh. "The guard didn't believe me when I said how old I was."

…it struck him as somewhat strange that one could tell a Swede's age by looking at her legs, but he didn't know much about Sweden and assumed that people there could be rather different from the Japanese. Maybe it was like trees? You could tell the age of trees by looking at growth rings, so...?

Talking to Miss Sweden Shiro learnt that the Miss could play the guitar, had one younger sister, and she was going to become a nurse. He also learnt that it was a great difference between seeing a girl on stage, or in magazines, and seeing her in real life. In real life there suddenly was a personality, besides the pretty exterior, and his subconscious had somehow never thought of that.

Shiro quickly decided that he liked how the Swedish melody came through in her English: it made him less self-conscious about his own accent, and it gave her speech a pleasant rising and falling quality, like birdsong. Inevitably, much of the conversation came to be about the differences between their countries. Shiro's sole experience with countries outside Japan was his short sojourn in Rome, but talking with Marie-Louise made him realise just _how_ different places can be.

"You say you aren't polite, but compared to a Swedish nineteen-year-old you're a swear-mother's dream", she said, gesturing at him with a hosomaki sushi that she held with her bare fingers. "Swedish young men are terrible. They curse and drink and rape. No manners."

"That… sounds terrible", he agreed awkwardly: compared to _that_ , he must come off as extremely polite. "It make me sad to hear."

"It is. I like the Japanese: you have much better manners. And you have such wonderful cocks", she said, swallowing a piece of sushi almost whole while Shiro tried to keep himself from going beetroot red. He had _heard_ that Swedes were supposed to be "free-spirited", but he hadn't expected this degree of… free-spiritedness.

"Um… Thank you?" he tried, not sure if he wanted to have this kind of conversation in public. "I… really liked your dress, Mari-Rouisu-san. The blue one at stage – but this one is very nice also, of course." The one she wore was a knee-length one with bright flower-patterns. It looked out-of-place among the glossy evening gowns, but then again so did Shiro's hair.

"I should have worn the same dress I had on stage, but…" She lowered her voice with a shy yet impish look on her face. "It got stuck in the cunt when I went up on stage", she tittered. "It broke a little, so I had to switch when I came down. I just hope it didn't show on stage."

"Uh, no. No, it didn't show", Shiro spoke into his glass, sipping some wine to buy time to get his face straight – what kind of person _tells_ people about such a mishap?! "Good you have other clothes for wear."

"Well, we were all given a fuck backstage under rehearsals, so I had some clothes left there." …and Shiro almost spat his wine back into the glass. "I still can't believe I'm here. It's like a drea- Sorry, how are you?"

"I'm fine", he croaked, coughing and patting his chest to make the alcohol take a u-turn out of his windpipe. "All fine." Nope, not making an idiot of himself at all.

"Precisely what a Swedish guy would say", she smiled, although it looked like she tried not to. "But it will pass over. Say, you must have just finished school, right? What do you do now? Work?"

"I study. I will become doctor." Of sorts.

"Oh, wow – that needs very high marks." Her pink lips formed an impressed o. "It's very difficult to become doctor in Sweden. It must be even harder in Japan…?"

"It is, but I was number six best in my school", he smiled through watering eyes, having brought the worst of his cough under control.

"Wow! You must be so smart! Oh, sorry – I don't mean that I think you _weren't_ smart, I just didn't know how smart you were", she excused hurriedly. Just how…? How could _one_ girl be both extremely worried about offending somebody, and extremely open about other things…?

"Is okay", he smiled. "I was not always smart, so when I heard, I celebrated to morning. I had never think I would have this success like this."

"It sounds like me when I was told I would go to Miss International in Japan." Bracelets jingled when she pushed a lock of honey-blonde hair behind her ear. "They took me on the bed when they told me - it was wonderful. I couldn't stop crying, and my mum sucked at me, but it was wonderful. I get too see the world!" She laughed with all her shining white teeth, and raised her glass. "Cheers to our successes, Mr. Shiro?"

Shiro clinked his glass against hers with a smile he hoped wasn't too artificial. Just what the _hell_ …?

"Anno…" He had no real idea what to say after their little toast, but settled for the obvious. "Shiro is given name. Fujimoto is family name."

"Oh, I'm sorry." Yeah, it seemed like Swedes were either sorry or horny, in some case of bizarre bipolarity. "When you presented yourself, I thought… You say your last name first, and your first name last?"

Shiro had to take that sentence apart in his mind, to be absolutely sure he got it right, but confirmed after a moment that yes: that was how people introduced themselves in Japan.

"So I should call you Mr. Fujimoto, then."

"No, not… Is too sharp." Oh dear, how would he explain this? "Don't meet lip and tooths when you say 'fu'. Just wind." He would never be able to say 'breath' and make it intelligible. "Like this." He left a narrow gap between his lips and blew a stream of air between them. "Only wind, no tooths. Fujimoto."

"Fujimoto", she repeated, correctly.

"Hai. Yes, Marie-Rouisu-san."

She beamed at him, dimples digging into her cheeks when she smiled, and then returned the challenge:

"In Sweden we present ourselves with our own name first and family name last."

"Oh. Then I should call you the other name." Whatever that had been. Something crisp with too many consonants together. "Ta… Taanvitsu?"

"Törnkvist."

Oh god…

"Taankuvisto?" He articulated with his whole face, trying to wrestle down the foreign phonemes, and if he hadn't looked like an idiot before then he sure did now.

"Almost", she encouraged with some sort of polite amusement. " _Törn_ kvist."

"Te- Töönkuvisto? Töönkuvisto-san?" She nodded enthusiastically at that. Good. He wasn't going to get any closer than that. "Swedish people have difficult names", he chuckled helplessly, running a hand through his hair out of habit.

"It's because we have more pricks than others."

Just when it couldn't get more awkward.

"Uh… Women also…?" He _hoped_ he'd misunderstood that, but Swedes didn't seem to have any qualms at all about speaking of such things.

"Oh yes." Same enthusiastic nod. What the hell was wrong with this person? "I have two pricks, but one can have more."

"But… Your dress was stuck on stage…?" And she had been on stage in a _swimsuit,_ and just what the flying fuck…?

"Sorry, I don't think I understand." Oh, she wasn't the only one… "What did you ask about my dress?"

…and even if he didn't fulfil the technical requirements for a guardian angel, Mephisto did fill the practical function of one when Shiro spotted him in the corner of his eye.

"Excuse me, Töönkuvisto-san. My uncle wants me. It was nice talking with you."

He bowed, she curtsied, and Shiro left the bizarre conversation to trot over to Mephisto and the hors d'oeuvres at the buffet. He seemed fine as a fish in water, humming anime openings to himself as he balanced a plate on his spread fingertips and loaded it with a steadily growing tower of food.

"So~ How was Miss Törnkvist?"

"…very exotic."

* * *

When they returned to the Academy late that night, Shiro found a note tucked in under his dorm room door.

_Ahoy there, Fuji!_

_I was passing True Cross on the way and thought I'd stop by, but it seems I missed you. Well, we both did. Shizzy composed a haiku for you instead, so here you go!_

_See you at the next crossroad, as the saying goes. Or that might just be our saying? Shizzy says it's not a real idiom, and he's a know-it-all when it comes to language: but I'm his big sister, so I'm always right._

_See you at the next crossroad!_

_\- Kasumi_

_Pink bloom falls in spring_  
_It does not spring up in fall_  
 _Unless it's stupid_

_\- Shizuku_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Glossary**
> 
> **leg** is short for "legitimation", and asking to see one's leg is the equivalent of asking for an ID (very common mistake).
> 
>  **svärmor** is Swedish for mother-in-law, but translates literally as "swear-mother": the mother you're sworn family to, as opposed to the mother you have a biological connection to. A "swear-mother's dream" is the term for a man (usually) who has all the qualities a mother wants her daughter's husband to have.
> 
>  **rapa** means to burp, but it's much closer at hand to turn it into rape.
> 
>  **kock** is Swedish for chef, and sounds very similar to cock. (Next time somebody asks me about the Swedish Chef I just might reply "Oh, you mean the Swedish Cock?")
> 
>  **kant** means edge, and sounds like cunt. And yes, we say that something snags _in_ an edge. Prepositions are treacherous little things.
> 
>  **fack** sounds like fuck, and has several meanings: the one valid here is a box or compartment, of the kind you'd find at a train station.
> 
>  **bli tagen på sängen** is an expression that translates word for word as _to be taken on the bed_ , but it equals to be caught off guard. What we mean is that you're caught by surprise when sleeping. (Although, shift the accent in "tagen" ever so slightly and you will end up with the Freudian meaning in Swedish, too. Don't ever attempt this as a learner of Swedish: the difference is so small you wouldn't be able to hear it, but a Swede would.)
> 
>  **sucka** means to sigh, and in the past tense it's suckade, so yeah… sucked.
> 
>  **prick** means dot, here referring to the dotted letters å ä ö. This lovely frog jumped from the mouth of a representative for Göta Bank, which had changed name to Gota Bank to simplify international relations. The man in question claimed: "We are the same guys as before although we have lost our pricks."
> 
>  **Törnkvist** (lit. Thorn-twig, a pretty common surname) has a mute r in standard Swedish, which is why Shiro's pronunciation-attempt looks he way it does. It's the same type of difference you get in (British) English, if you add an r to _bun_ and notice how the vowel sound changes into _burn_ without leaving any trace of an r.
> 
>  **Miss International** is one of the four largest beauty pageants in the world, held annually in Tokyo's Imperial Theatre. I'm not using the real Swedish contestant, for obvious reasons. I do wonder about Miss New Zealand, however. When I checked the participant lists from 1976 the contestant from New Zealand was noted down as Unknown, although apparently she made it to the semi-finals or something like that. I'm still wondering about that...


	47. One Night Stand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Dedicated to Doodle and Mickey** , my brother and brother-in-law respectively.

Girls, games, and a good friend's company: what more could one ask of life?

Some might want more - people always seem want more no matter how much they already have - but for Shiro that really covered everything. He and Mephisto had spent yet another evening battling at arcade games, and after a marathon match in _Pong -_ which left them both seeing pixelated shadow balls bouncing over their fields of vision afterwards - Shiro had lost and had to treat Mephisto to supper. Or breakfast?

"Night snack", the demon concluded as they strolled side by side down the lit avenue. The night market lay ahead, admiring its shining reflection in the pond next to it. It was well past midnight, and clothes and toys were being hauled in from their racks. The food carts were still open, hoping to serve shopkeepers that might want something to fill their bellies with after packing up.

"Right. What's your favourite snack tonight, then?"

Shiro had learnt from Belial that Mephisto might seem simpleminded about food, but in reality he was terribly hard to please. Junk food was his current obsession: historically, it was a novelty, and humanity's new inventions had always captured the prince's interest. Before junk food he had been absolutely crazy about peanut butter & jelly sandwiches; over time, those sandwiches had evolved to include all the other new foodstuffs that caught his fancy, such as Nutella, vegemite, marshmallows, and cheese puffs. The sandwiches were, according to the butler, as terrible as they sounded.

"Pork soba, extra spicy", Mephisto concluded after stroking his beard in careful consideration.

"I could complain about your eating habits, but I gotta say I'm glad you're so cheap."

"Watch your tongue, Shiro: that all depends on how much I eat."

"Now that you mention it: have you been gaining lately?" he said, sweeping a concerned glance over Mephisto's skeletal frame.

That Mephisto would gain a single gram was as likely as him getting honourably married. But the mere _suggestion_ that his slender figure was in danger was enough to make him fuss worse than your average housewife, which put some very amusing images in Shiro's mind.

"One spicy pork soba, and one beef udon", he ordered at the steamy little yatai. Haah, what a nice, warm night – had to savour them now, wouldn't be able to stay up this late once school started.

"Udon? I would have expected something more wholesome of you."

"Buckwheat, normal wheat – no big difference", he shrugged, absentmindedly scraping the folded yen note over his five-o'clock-shave. Well, he _willed_ there to be five-o'clock-shave. His meagre beard growth was never keen on listening to his wishes.

"How exactly did you pass biology?"

"Excuse me, sirs: how spicy…?" The vendor addressed Shiro more than Mephisto, since he was the one that looked Japanese. Normally, vendors in True Cross Town would recognise Mephisto as Johann Faust, but in that Honeybee Maya yukata he looked more like a peculiar tourist.

"As much as you can fit into the bowl without turning the broth into porridge." The chef seemed very sceptical of that. "Don't worry. You can pour lighter fluid over his and he'll still ask for extra chilli. And to answer your question", he said, turning back to his peculiar tourist friend, "I don't care so much about the ingredients as the texture." Shiro handed over the yen notes. "I prefer them thick and juicy."

"Mmm, all the possible replies to that… Really, I can't decide…"

"Traffic jam in the Pervert Speech Centre?" he smirked, and took their bowls off the counter. "How about you use your mouth for something other than talking, then?" He grinned over his shoulder as he strolled off to one of the two remaining tables. "Neurons knotting up good~?"

It had taken many, _many_ Freudian all-nighters before Shiro had realised there was such a thing as overloading a demon's silver tongue. It was quite simple, really, once you understood the mechanism behind: serve up too many tempting baits and the possible replies would pile up and clog the poor demon's brain.

"I'm thinking I should have a dictaphone taped to you at all times, then run the tape through the school's speaker system." Mephisto assumed his seat with royal grace, which looked rather funny when the seat in question was a plastic chair in a hideous shade of green. "Would make a most memorable graduation ceremony once you obtain your exorcist license."

"M-hm: and I know which demon would be my first target."

…of course, only a minor share of the innuendos that left Shiro's mouth were intentional. Especially when it came to food.

"You're just being fussy: it's no more difficult to eat udon than to eat soba", Shiro argued against his obstinate friend. "The trick is to take it all in in one go." Yeah that didn't sound suggestive. "Fuck, I should just stay quiet... " Shiro snortled helplessly into his hand, almost dropping the noodles back in the bowl, and across the table Mephisto fared no better. "I don't know _when_ I started screwing up so badly when I speak, but I sure as hell will blame you for it."

"I'm the source of your suppressed desires? My my, are we finally about to hear a confession~?" The demon smirked over his soup with bedroom eyes.

"The source of all my screw-ups: now stop talking and start swallowing."

…that one backfired pretty badly, with all the unpleasant associations Shiro's brain came up with when Mephisto slurped up soba noodles with very suggestive noises. Oh well. It's amazing what the human mind can grow accustomed to.

They kept bantering back and forth, accompanied by the clanks and murmurs of crates being packed and carried into vans. Some vendors had settled down to eat, over at the stands that sold yakisoba and dumplings, but it seemed their raunchy laughter had discouraged any from claiming the other table at the noodle soup yatai. One person did approach them, however. It was a crinkly old woman, thin as rice paper in her heavy kimono. She bowed politely once she reached their table and-

"Pardon, my lady, I hadn't finished", Mephisto enlightened.

No, but the old lady seemed firmly convinced that he had, and padded back to the yatai – she was the owner's mother or something? – with Mephisto's cup of chilli seeds. If she wasn't completely deaf, she must be pretty close to. Not that it mattered: he just snapped his fingers and summoned his cup of condiment anew.

"She left before you could finish?" Shiro leered sweetly. "Aww ain't that a smudge on your reputation as a womanizer~?"

"This is about to become a challenge, Shiro", he informed with a sharply raised eyebrow.

"You feel like challenging the King of Freudian Slips?" He spread his arms and slurped down the last udon string with a cocky grin. "Come at me, Sammy~"

"And the loser has to treat the winner when we go to Mepphy Land", the demon concluded.

And so it began: the battle to eat a whole serving of noodles without succumbing to the other's taunts. It was such a ridiculous thing to do – really, he remembered playing that kind of game with some of the other orphanage kids when he was still little – but Mephisto could bend near all laws to his liking, be it the laws of time and space or the laws of acceptable social behaviour.

They were pretty even, really. Shiro's tolerance threshold had risen remarkably since he'd gotten to know his very _unabashed_ friend. Friend. Truly, the human mind can grow accustomed to the strangest things. A demon for a friend? …yeah. Despite all the dubious things he did, all the secrets he kept and all the games he played, Shiro did consider that… goofy… paradox… his friend.

"So it'll be okay for me to have additional classes with the older exorcist students, even if I'm- Hey, what are you doing?!"

"It's no proper duel if it's not fought on equal terms, no~?" Mephisto smiled graciously, having poured the other half of his super-spicy condiment into Shiro's udon bowl. "Let's see you finish _that_."

Holy. Fucking. _Hell_. He had no idea what Mephisto's taste buds were made of, but he was pretty sure the material had a liquefaction point at 40 000 degrees.

"Problem~?"

"Nah, I hear it's supposed to hurt in the beginning", Shiro returned with a forced smile. It felt like his saliva was sizzling on his tongue.

"That's what you get for preferring them thick and juicy and taking it all in at once."

It was good that Shiro did prefer thick noodles, though, for that remark got him very close to snorting one up his nose.

"Goog whone", he admitted through a mouthful of udon. "Caweful, though: hik the wighk schpok angd ya mighk gek the schausche ing yer faisch."

"Good opportunity to find out if your increased intake of fruit makes any difference to the taste, then", he smirked and licked a droplet off his chopsticks in a _very_ … evocative way.

"I can't believe they let you be in charge of children…"

The battle raged on, while Shiro wanted nothing more than for it to end – god, his mouth was on fire and his tear canals were trying to quell it before it burnt off his jaw. The darn old goat _had_ to lose, quick as _hell_ , but he was already drinking up the broth, and Shiro's breath wheezed up a throat filled with acid-

"Ha-aaah~ Mephisto…"

That did the trick. Totally. Mephisto spat the broth back into his bowl in a fit of coughing and laughter.

"…I didn't even mean to make it sound _that_ dirty." It was a good thing his face was already flushed from the spice…

"Nhnhnahaaha I- I-kueheheheee Ineedadictaphone! I need a dictahahahahaaa…!"

It wasn't long before Shiro, too, surrendered to laughing his lungs out. Fuck, he'd been up all night, his eyes were hurting and tears were running and Mephisto's unrestrained, hooting laughter just swept him along, like an avalanche he was all too happy to lose himself in.

" _I'm… happy_ ", he thought to himself, feeling light-headed almost as if he were drunk but pinning it as too little sleep and too much fun. " _Real fairy tale happy._ "

Through squinting eyes, he saw Mephisto wiping laughing tears from eyes that were reduced to crumpled-up arcs of merriment. He was happy, too… and somewhere within Shiro, a small, cosy warmth assured him that the demon was happy with _him._ Not with the memory of a man who had died centuries ago.

"Oh dear, oh dear… Given _that_ golden nugget I won't even mind losing." The fit had passed, the tears had been dried, and the forest green eyes seemed brighter than ever in the dusk. "So – how does Saturday sound for Mepphy Land?"

"Can't", he chuckled. "Kasumi will be dropping Shizu off for school then, and she'll stay one day extra to see me. Oi, don't gimme that sulky puppy-eyes-look: I've spent near every night of summer holidays with you."

"And what does Miss Honda have to say about that~?"

"No, I… Shut up: you've lost already."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N**
> 
> ...oh, right. The full title of the chapter is "One Night at the Stand". It was inspired by the challenge enacted by Doddle and Mickey one lovely evening in Kyoto. They made up the title then, too.


	48. Is it worth it?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **WARNING**  
>  Bad stuff ahead (off screen).

Sit. Pace. Stand. Wait.

_they'd told him to wait how the fuck could they expect him to just sit like a good boy and wait_

Pace. Sit. Pace. Vomit.

_he'd never get rid of the taste no matter how much he would spit and wash and_

Wait.

_Wait._

Wait for the taste of blood to bend him over the hospital toilet again.

* * *

Dog bite, they'd said when they rushed into the emergency department. _Dog bite_. The nurses had seen the smears of blood he'd tried to wipe from his face, he was sure, but none had said anything.

Of course they hadn't. Anybody could tell those bites didn't come from a human.

Stand. Pace. _Wait._

He couldn't tell in which order things happened. Sharp snapshots had replayed in his head so many times they seemed to blur together in a dream. All he knew was he would never forget the taste.

Was he injured? No. His relation to the injured? Friend, he thought he'd replied, but he couldn't quite remember.

_some fucking friend couldn't remember it all went black the taste exploded and the burning_

Was she a student at the Academy? No. Was there somebody to contact? Yes - mother and brother, though he only knew how to get in touch with the latter.

Pace. Sit. Wait. _Quiver_.

Shizuku would tear him to pieces.

_pieces between his teeth soft sweet pieces peeled them away get them away and_

Stand. Rush.

When he vomited again – fourth time? fifth? – his cramping gut mustered no more than strings of saliva and acid. There was nothing left to throw up, nothing left inside, nothing… nothing…

Shiro fumbled with the tap, fingers numb and trembling with exhaustion. He washed his mouth, washed his hands, face; poured water down his clammy back. Shuddered. How long had it been…? Emergency surgery should be quick, right? It sounded like something that should go quick. When things needed to be fixed quickly. Stitched back together. Repairing the damage done.

_why don't you stop lying to yourself_

Shiro hated masks. Hated how people pretended to be something they weren't. Because they _changed_. They became the lie, decaying behind a mask that merged with their skin and grew into the bone underneath. Like a tumour. Growing into you. Eating you. Disintegrating you and replacing you.

And you wouldn't even notice. Rapid change, slow change – those, you'll notice. But not change within. You don't notice the subtle lies you echo inside your head to smother the voice of truth. Not until the mask is ripped off your face, skin and all.

He hated masks, and still he'd worn them. Without noticing, without thinking – masks painted with the lie that he could have the same life as everyone else. That he was still the same as everyone else.

He was a vessel for Satan. How the fuck could he ever hope to be like everyone else?

_and look what that hope had done what he had done no matter how many warnings he refused to_

It went black again. Thick, swathing black brought it all back to him: Kasumi's wide eyes, cataracts of blood washing over her fingers, the taste, the _taste-_

_**"Screwed up pretty bad, did ya? Some boyfriend ya make fufufu~ But, it's not like it's gonna matter in the long run, is it? You'll find someone new. You always do. 'Cause they never really** _ _matter_ _**, do they~?"** _

Shut up. Shut up shut up just go away and _shut up…!_

_**"Lose one girl, find a new one. Lose some friends, find new ones. As soon as things stop being fun and games ya turn tail and run, no strings attached - 'cause that's what they're for, your precious little friends. They're your entertainment."** _

Shut up!

 _ **"They're your**_ _distractions_ _ **."**_

" _You're lying_ ", he hissed, scrambling within himself to find support for his claim.

_**"They're there to make ya forget how lonely ya feel."** _

" _I love her!_ "

 _ **"Do ya~?"**_ it snickered gleefully. _**"Or do ya love how she makes ya feel? Warm, happy, wanted – quite different from the orphanage where ya were raised, heeh~?**_ _That's_ _**what ya love, little hypocrite. And ya could get that from**_ _anybody_ _ **."**_

" _I love her!_ "

Shiro broke through the surface of the darkness, gasping for breath in a corridor he couldn't place. Still in the hospital: good. Nobody around: even better. Be the master of your emotion, be the master of your darkness – god, it was like swimming upstream in a mountain torrent, swept up and carried away; guilt, panic, shame, despair…

He fumbled his way along the concrete wall, into the blinding, sterile light of a larger corridor hoping to weaken the demon's hold somewhat. It worked, but it was a quick fix. He managed to shut it out, while at the same time shutting himself in with an inferno of emotion he couldn't bring under control. Idiot. As dumb as Shizuku joked he was and then some. A stupid fucking idiot that-

" _What am I whining about?_ " Cold. So cold it froze the angst to crisp, sharp-edged icicles in his chest. " _I'm not the one lying in there with my face torn to shreds._ "

Selfish. Just like his dear old father; a selfish coward that put his own goddamn comfort before the welfare of people he claimed he loved. Keep a crack in the shielding, 'cause that was so bloody much more comfortable – never mind it risked demons slipping in, he just wanted to feel that sweet drug of emotion fill him. Him. Him, him, him – always _him_ , Fujimoto Shiro; the orphan that didn't want to be close and didn't want to be alone, the daredevil that took stupid fuck-ass risks for his precious kicks…!

" _It should've been me._ " _He_ took the risks, _he_ should pay the price when they backfired! " _It should've been me, dammit!_ "

Wait. Walk.

Walk anywhere, walk nowhere. Just walk and hope that he couldn't keep up. That he'd fall behind and let his better self move on.

Shiro didn't meet the eyes of the nurses he passed in the white corridors, but he felt them. As if the fallen mask had left his face a raw, skinless horror that everyone saw but pretended not to see. Selfish, unspeakable, tainted: a vessel befitting Satan.

He sought the shadows of the echoing hallways, hurried his feet through oceans of lamplight as if it could reveal his thoughts aloud if he stayed too long. It all looked the same, everywhere. White corridors spawning endless clones that ran the same crooked spirals as his thoughts. He couldn't find the doors to the surgery room, couldn't find the doors he'd arrived through, couldn't find-

" _I don't even know what I'm trying to find. I don't know what I'm doing._ "

Walking. Manically walking, as if he were a wind-up toy whose heart would stop if he did. The empty waiting room welcomed him with nondescript paintings and worn couches with covers that gained an unpleasant hue of flesh pink in the stuffy light.

Shiro couldn't sit down anyway. Move, move, had to move. Restlessness churned in his gut, chased his gaze this-way-and-that across the room – bookshelf with old magazines, cup of dried-up ballpoint pens for those with time and peace of mind to solve crosswords, children's corner, long-leafed pot plants in the windows, brochures on vaccination info

_thoughts racing god they didn't stop rushed around madly like caged birds looking for a way out when there wasn't_

He tried to stop something, just _something_ – his feet, his thoughts, his neurotic eyes – but it all kept moving, kept

_so many things he wouldn't have done if he'd only stopped to think if he'd only listened tonight would never have happened if_

***dun***

Silence.

Bliss… silence… drowning his thoughts in the wrenching pain of a dislocated knuckle.

Shiro leaned against the wall he'd punched, shrouded in the private darkness behind his closed eyelids. His breath hissed in and out between clenched teeth. Right hand. Index finger. Of course. His idiot brain had never thought before it acted, why would it start now?

Doctor training kicked in, and Shiro gratefully latched onto the practical protocol that rolled like cinema through his mind. Clear, methodical thoughts. Drilled-in procedure that he could find respite in. First, check where the phalanx bone was- nngh, okay, okay; it had dislocated entirely and stuck on the side of the metacarpal bone. So, first to disconnect it…

Shiro drew a breath, placed his left hand fingers around the knuckle, and squeezed hard.

" _Bloody fucking_ shit…!" Electric current shot through his bones, cracking flesh and muscle…! He gasped at the sickening feeling of things moving where things should not move. " _Okay… okay…_ " Feel the joint again, try to find the – nghah! – find the end of the phalanx. It wasn't in position yet, fuck it all. One more go, one more… " _Ngh-haaaanrrrh!_ " Capillaries caught fire and painted forks of thunder over his closed eyelids. Was it-? Yes, it was in position. Good.

Shiro opened his eyes a sliver and inspected his right hand. The finger was where it should be, but longer than it should be. It hadn't popped back into its socket yet. Gingerly, he felt the row of knuckles, then grimaced as he forced his fingers down into a ninety-degree angle.

" _One…_ " He placed the backs of his fingers flat against the wall. " _Two…_ " He extended his arm in a right angle against the surface. " _Three._ " Drew a breath: and pushed.

He might have whimpered, he wasn't sure. When the pain subsided, he tried bending and straightening his fingers. The index finger felt sore and unsteady, but it was in place. Nothing seemed fractured, as far as he could tell. The tendons would be sore: that was about it. Splint it and it would be back to normal in a couple of weeks.

Back to normal…

With the task completed, his calm, practical reasoning fell apart once more. Slowly. _Inevitably._ Bridges burning with flame he couldn't extinguish.

Back to normal. Another lie he should stop telling himself.

Shiro waded through a slow-motion haze of disconnected impressions; vacuum-wrapped emotions; thoughts half decayed; he could've walked off the edge of the world, and he wouldn't even have noticed. Vacant eyes stared blindly through reality, through the mirage lies he'd anchored his hopes to and into the hollow truth in his heart; into his own eyes…

The low hum of the vending machine lulled him back to consciousness, back through the eyes of the reflection that stared at him inside the glass.

_eyes like a demon_

He hadn't understood it before, what Midori had meant when she said that. But there they were. Pupils narrowed down to arrow tips; lethal, glaring black holes in brown irises that had always shifted towards red, but not this much. Not this bright. These were predator eyes. Demon eyes.

 _There is no grey zone_ , the reflection whispered through the buzzing of the cooling system. _There is black and there is white, and no room for you to doubt which side you're on anymore._  
  
No grey zones of doubt. No haven for lies to feed his precious delusions.

And slowly… Fujimoto Shiro, the infamous daredevil of True Cross Academy… sagged against the smooth, cold glass… and slid down on the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title, "Is it worth it?", is a nod to **Inferno ch 23** where Kasumi questions Shiro about his relation to Mephisto.
> 
> "A friendship where ye have ta constantly be on guard. Watch ye' back, watch ye' tongue, watch ye' mind - watch ye' heart. Is it worth it?"
> 
> Is it worth the risk?


	49. Only human

Never listen to a demon's deceptive words. He knew that. Still, as the crescent moon sailed slowly over the night sky, they kept echoing in Shiro's ears.

He stood vigil at Kasumi's hospital bed that night, listening to the monotonous hum of the fan and the incessant beeping of machines in the dark room. Shizuku had fallen asleep in a chair, adding his snoring to the disharmonic lullaby. A nurse had passed by on her night round, an hour ago or so: she had put a blanket over him. She had asked if Shiro wanted one, too. He didn't.

Love is like lobotomy. It makes people take stupid risks. Tristan and Isolde, Lancelot and Guinevere, Romeo and Juliet – classical literature was full of them, and they all ended badly.

Shiro had stared so long at the bandaged face that he had nearly forgotten it was her. At some point it had ceased to be a person and become a still picture; a surreal photography encapsulated in the clinically dreamless sleep of drugs and anaesthesia. A few times, he'd actually thought it was someone else, and that this all was some dystopian fantasy his mind had tricked him into believing. A few times, he had stopped breathing, thinking Kasumi had died.

A few times, he had wondered how close she had been to dying.

When Shizuku had arrived at the hospital, Shiro had taken his chalk-white classmate aside to explain. He hadn't resisted when Shizuku beat him up. It didn't make him feel better, it didn't make anything any better… But Shizuku needed to let off steam. That, at least, Shiro could do for him.

Shiro had told him how it had happened, how they had been walking back to her hostel together in the evening. How she had hopped up on the steps to somebody's porch and waved him closer. How she had pulled him tight and kissed him. How everything went black after that.

He didn't tell Shizuku that he usually let his barriers down around Kasumi. It had been at the edge of his teeth, tipping like a vase on a bumped table, but it never came out. Couldn't come out. It clung to his tongue with piercing barbs, promising to shatter the ground beneath his feet if he ever told the whole truth.

There were bandages over her chin, a small gap for her breath to wheeze out, bandage over her nose, cheeks – swirls of ruffled, sun-bleached hair sticking out where the white gauze crawled around her head. If not for the tattoos reaching out from the short sleeves of the green hospital robe, the listless shape on the bed could have been anybody.

If not for the tattoos, she could have been dead. Shiro himself couldn't remember, but his skin remembered the burning force of the wards. That's what had called his consciousness back. Too fucking late.

To say he was sorry didn't come close to covering what he felt. There was no excuse for what he had done, nothing he could say that would make her stitches disappear. But tomorrow would come, and when Kasumi woke up he would have to tell her _something_. He had no idea what, but he had all night to figure it out; and all night, useless syllables void of meaning piled up in his gut. Funny things, words. The ones you really need never exist.

* * *

A thousand imagined scenarios later, Kasumi woke. It started as a feeble fluttering of her eyelids, a strained swallowing through a dry throat… and then her eyes opened. And Shiro had no words.

"Hey there", he whispered softly, noticing how his fingers – except the right index one, which was splinted – tightened around the clipboard he held. "Don't talk. Doctor's orders", he smiled wanly. "Your lip needs to heal together first. Meanwhile, he said you could use this to communicate."

Gingerly, as if it were a shrine offering, he placed the clipboard in her lap, along with the ballpoint pen attached to it by string. Was that all he had? After all that time, empty words echoed from a doctor's mouth was all he had to say to her?

"…I'm so sorry, Kasumi." His voice started breaking on the last syllable of her name. He swallowed, lowered his gaze to the clipboard and blinked a couple of times. "I'm… I should leave you and Shizuku alone for a while. Somebody needs to inform the doc-doctor that you're awake, anyway."

An inarticulate noise made him turn around when he was about to go wake Shizuku. Kasumi's fingers worked pathetically to pick up the pencil, her eyebrows knitted together in frustrated concentration.

…Shiro picked the pencil up for her and helped close her fingers around it, but it immediately fell out of her limp grasp.

"I think it's better if you rest for now", he murmured, stroking the calloused hand gently with his thumb. "Maybe Shizuku is better than me at guessing what you want." Better than him in every way.

When he turned leave, the urgent noise came from Kasumi's closed lips again, and powerless fingers tried to hold his hand in place. She looked sharply at him, pointing the question with her worried eyes, and managed a limp, graceless motion with her lower arm.

_What happened to ya' face?_

Shiro had been preoccupied with other things and hadn't noticed until Kasumi looked at him like that. The bruises from Shizuku's swings must be a dark shade of blue by now.

"He needed it, and I deserved it." She blurred in his vision, shit, he shouldn't- "I'll go wake him now."

Turning away, he blinked the tears back in line. Focus, dammit. He was still a mess, and demons still hoped for another chance. Steadying breaths accompanied his footfalls the short distance to the hospital chair, where Shizuku was sleeping in a position only possible if you've slept on the ground since you were little.

"Hey. Shizu-sa… Shizuku-san." He shook the pilgrim's shoulder gently. "She's awake."

Like magic words in a spell. Shizuku woke instantly, and wasted no time rushing over to his sister. Shiro took the opportunity to disappear through the heavy hospital door. Once outside, he clenched his teeth and grimaced, fighting back tears that tightened around the sobs in his throat.

_What happened to ya' face?_

" _Why do you worry about_ me _at a time like this, dammit…_ "

* * *

The hospital couldn't permit him to sleep in one of their beds, in case they suddenly found themselves in emergency need of one. Policy, or something like that. Shiro didn't give two shits about policy, and negotiations to convince him to go sleep in his dorm, or in a nearby hotel, had broken down rather quickly. He was fine with sleeping on the waiting room couch, and the personnel were fine with leaving him there. One nurse had asked if she should fetch an ice pack for his swollen lip, but he had declined.

Kasumi hadn't changed one bit. As soon as the anaesthesia released its grip on her muscles, her pencil scribbled through pages at lightning speed. About half of it were hiragana words: the rest were doodles of facial expressions she couldn't make through the bandages.

[Doctor says I get rid of the wrapping tomorrow already. =D I'm the record holder, you know? 103 stitches!]

…it was absurd. How she could be in high spirits like that. Both Shiro and Shizuku had asked if the morphine she had been given during surgery had some boosting effect on mood, and had received the reply that yes, they might have; but miss Honda seemed to be running mostly on her own steam. A psychologist had been sent to evaluate her status, and had concluded that Honda Kasumi was, despite the gravity of the accident, in perfect mental condition.

"Kasu, I know ya've been asked this a thousand times already: but are ye really okay in the head…?" Shizuku inquired, sitting with his arms folded on the backrest of a chair he'd turned around.

[Was I ever okay in the head, otouto? =P I think we've seen a bit in life already and gone blunt. Or mentally calloused. Or whatever fancy name shrinks like to use for it.]

"Ye're not just keepin' up pretence ta keep me from worryin', are ya? Or 'im." Shizuku nodded his head at Shiro. "Not that it's doin' much good with 'im anyway."

Shiro was too deep inside his cloud of gloom to even respond to the jibe. Looking at the siblings was like looking through a window to another dimension. Kasumi had basically dismissed the whole incident with a shrug, and as soon as it was clear that she would be okay Shizuku had gone from rabid dog to a mother hen that attended to his sister's every need. They really could just… leave it behind? Move on, not looking back?

It was different for them, of course. They didn't know of the imprint, or the reason Shiro was constantly targeted. They had no idea just how badly this could have ended. For them, this ordeal belonged in the past. They could move on in bliss ignorance, mentally calloused but strengthened by each other's company.

…once again, Shiro had to smother the wish that he could be the same as everyone else.

* * *

Next morning, Shiro woke to the gurgling screech of a huge, pink bat perched atop the couch backrest. It could have simply dropped the letter on him and left, but the darn creature still held enough grudge against him to wake him before taking off.

…trust the old goat to buy his stationery at the toy store. Rainbows and glitter, what the hell…

_Dear Fujimoto Shiro-kun_

_I have been informed of the nature of your absence…_

Shiro skimmed the letter sleepily: deep sympathies, relieved of janitor duty because of injury to hand, and…

 _Would you join me for a sojourn to Mepphy Land on Friday, before school starts?_ he read, eyelids hanging in a state of half-mast dullness that could just as well have sat on Mephisto's face. The bruise under his left eye had blossomed fully into purple now. " _Unbelievable. As bloody carefree as Kasumi._ "

Shiro dropped his head back down on the couch with a pained groan, and left letter and envelope on the table. He had been dreaming. Not about the accident itself, but about… hunting. He hadn't seen _what_ he hunted, and it hadn't mattered; it was the hunt itself, the thrill coursing through his straining muscles as he closed in…

Never mind. Just never mind. It wasn't a dream he cared to remember.

They both took this so lightly. If he could do the same, maybe… Just let it pass, look at it from the bright side; it could have been worse. Sure it could. Kasumi was alive, she was bouncy as ever, she wasn't mad at him – really, things could have been _a lot_ worse than that. He should count himself lucky to get away with so little damage after such an irresponsible screw-up. There were things still standing in the ruins. There were things still there to build on.

Shiro had himself pretty convinced of that - until Kasumi's bandages were taken off.

* * *

Failing fans left the hospital corridor to be slowly heated by the morning sun through the window, like a greenhouse smelling of disinfected plastic and ingrained routine. Shiro leaned against the wall outside the examination room, staring blindly at the beige carpeting with shredded delusions etched into his cornea. All he could think of was a peach, and somebody biting into it; but instead of eating it, the flesh was left dangling, scraped halfway off by teeth. A peach, soft and sweet and-

" _Dear god…_ "

He covered his eyes with a trembling hand, held upright by the wall supporting his shoulders. As if he could blot out the picture of Kasumi's bold pixie face. A patchwork of split flesh and black stitches.

He breathed, alone in the throbbing darkness, and listened to the air wheezing through the hole in his chest. Shit, shit, shit… A door opened smoothly next to him. The sound of more laboured breathing was heard, and a gait he recognised as Shizuku's.

Shiro kept hiding behind his hand as he spoke. His voice wouldn't carry for more than a whisper:

"I don't understand how she can smile."

"It's 'er gift." Shizuku didn't sound like himself. His voice was thick and hoarse, clogged with emotion he tried to keep in check. "She'll fuss over the smallest details in 'er carvings an' such, but in life nothing will bother her s' long as she's got feet ta walk on an' hands ta work with. I dunno how she does it." He bit the sob off as soon as he heard it creep into his voice. "But she does. An' I always thought she was amazing that way. Like she could truly… truly appreciate life, no matter how bad things got. Like she could see things in it that I couldn't. Forgive things… that I couldn't." The next sob couldn't be held back. Shizuku sniffled and swallowed thickly. "Look, man, I'm…" his voice wobbled unsteadily, "I'm sorry I hit ya. I was-"

"Don't be", Shiro murmured, letting his hand drop and looked away, fixing his eyes on a poster with hygiene prescriptions to let his friend have some privacy with his tears. "It was the right thing to do."

"But I shouldn't. I still shouldn't. I know I got a temper", he sniffed, wiping fiercely at his eyes. "But I shouldn't let that get ahead 'o my thinking. I _know_ ya didn't mean any o' this. I know that." He wiped his hand on the threadbare shirt he wore, eyes cast on the ground. "But my feelings don't."

"Yeah…" he murmured feebly to himself. "Feelings aren't good at thinking, are they?"

* * *

Outside the hospital the sun was shining brightly, completely unaware that it wasn't appropriate for Shiro's mood. He let the smoke waft out of mouth and nostrils at its own leisure, empty eyes tracing its dance as it disappeared in thin air. The cigarette rested awkwardly against his splinted forefinger.

The bites had torn the buccal branch of the facial nerve on the right side of Kasumi's face, the doctor had explained. The lower part of the infraorbital nerve, too. She couldn't move her mouth and cheek properly, or feel her upper lip. Her prognosis was uncertain. The nerves might grow back together, or they might not: it would take at least two years before they could say anything for certain. The only thing they could say was that her flesh seemed to heal together without complications, but her chances of getting full feeling back were low.

And still, she had smiled at the news.

_A smile is a slow dagger, slipping in between your ribs…_

But her muscles didn't feel what they were doing.

_…and twisting_

Shiro had felt the stitches tear in his heart, all one hundred and three of them, when that impish signature smile of hers had tugged the patched ragdoll features. It had been distorted, a grimace, a miserably failed attempt to act as if nothing had changed. That was when he had decided to go out for a smoke.

There were three cigarette butts in the metal box now. The first one had been to calm his rampant guilt. The second had been for capturing the seed of an idea that had sprung from chaos, once guilt had been subdued into a dull, aching knot in his chest. The third had been nurture, as the seed had begun sprouting… suggestions. They had been mere fancies at first – daydreams and madman's hopes – but the more he thought about it, the closer the red glow crept to the filter…

The fourth cigarette, the one rolling thoughtfully back and forth between his fingers, was the scales measuring the weight of his decision.

There was a way to make amends. Make things right, clear up the mess he was responsible for. There was always a way. If you were willing to pay the price.

* * *

Maybe it showed on his face; maybe the rumour of female intuition held some grain of truth. Whichever it was, Kasumi's serious eyes nailed him in place as soon as he re-entered the hospital foyer.

"Hullo there, Fuji. I was worried ye'd left." There was worry in her voice yes: not that he had left, but for where he had gone. "There's somethin' we need ta talk about."

It's a strange experience, to go for a walk in a hospital. You can't help but listen to your footsteps, as they thrum a thousand stories out of the silent walls; the joy of expecting mothers, the fearful pain of children injured in wild games, the slowing heartbeat of an elderly husk waiting to expire… A library of human life, in its entire garish rainbow.

"Ye know how I told ya I can read every thought in ye' head?" Kasumi began. She kept the usual humour in her voice, even though it greyed like withered petals around the edges. "Right now ye're thinking o' doing something really stupid 'cause ye' conscience tells ya to. _Don't_ , Fuji." He looked away, as if she really could read his mind if he met her eyes. "Look at me. This isn't yer fault, okay?" she said, touching her fingertips to stitched skin that couldn't feel them.

"It is", he replied without emotion.

"No it ain't. Ya didn't mean ta do this, right?"

"No, but I-"

"No 'buts'." She cocked an eyebrow at him, daring him to argue against her. "It was an accident, an' nobody could help it. An' I'm no worse fer wear. Sure, I may be a little uglier than I was before, but I'm not gonna have any problems eatin' or speakin'. I'm gonna be alright, Fuji", she said with emphasis. "An' ye're not gonna sign some blood contract ta fix something that's alright."

Maybe it showed on his face, maybe she knew him well – maybe she was telepathic. Regardless, things were as far from bloody alright as they could have been. And it was his fault.

"You won't be alright for years – might never have full feeling back. Look, I-"

"That doesn't matter. Trust me, it doesn't matter." One of her eyebrows rose disdainfully at the next question: "Or ya don't want an ugly girlfriend…?"

"No! No, that really isn't it." He halted, fumbled for words, wet his lips; forced himself to meet her eyes. "I did this", he murmured to her, "and I won't ever be able to look at you without remembering that. This is all my fault, and I should… I should make it right."

She placed a finger over his lips, shaking her head gently. To her, the situation really was nothing but a minor detail, another pebble on the road, and she would let it pass without a second thought. She was as amazing as Shizuku had said she was, and she would no doubt carry on like she always had... but all Shiro could think of was the suture smile that clawed at his heart.

"It's noble of ya, ta think like that, but it's not worth it."

"It is worth it. You don't understa-"

"Look, Shiro, I understand just fine", she cut him off, and her voice was so sharp he lost his train of thought. "Ye blame ye'self. That's natural: I blamed me'self when my little sister died." Remembrance softened her eyes. Memories of pain and of learning to live with it. "But ye gotta accept that accidents happen, an' there's nothing one can do about it."

"I _can_ d-"

"Sure: ye _can_. There's many things people _can_ do, but that doesn't mean they _should_ do 'em. It's not worth it." Without warning, she grabbed his glasses strings and gently tugged him down, the way you'd pull someone by the collar. "Look, I know Sir Pheles is yer buddy… But when it comes ta business a demon's a demon, an' that's never gonna change. Ye're not making any deal with him, ya hear me?"

How could he promise her something like that? How could he agree to promise that, when he felt every stitch in her mangled face tear at his conscience? He tried to block it out, of course he did; tried to let the feeling slide, wash over and be gone, like water off a duck's feather. Good luck with that.

Time stretched, and only silence left his lips.

"I thought ya wanted ta be an exorcist." Kasumi stabbed the words at him like an accusation. Despite her scant size, she felt much bigger than he was. "This is reality fer an exorcist. People get hurt. People die. Blame themselves. Wish they could'a done somethin' about it." Regret. Sticky as pine resin in the dark depths of her eyes; regret for all the wishes that had gone unfulfilled. "It's not just demons ye fight out there: it's yer own human nature. It's in our nature ta love, ta mourn – ta wish fer miracles when we're desperate." A shaky breath, a tense pause… and as she let go of his strings, her voice softened: "Demons know that. That's why it's in desperate situations that an exorcist has ta show 'is true strength. If 'e fails ta do that, he'll be defeated: not through magic, not through claws, but through 'is own heart."

…and finally, they came. Water off a duck's feather. A broken dam with emotion pouring freely down his cheeks, and no chance in the world of stopping it.

"I'm sorry." He buried his face in her hair, pulled her close and felt her soft warmth seep into his skin and hold him together. "I'm sorry, I'm so s-sorry…!" he repeated through incoherent sobs. "I shouldn't have gone o-out with you at night, I sh-shouldn't have-" Shouldn't be giving in to emotion like this, even if it was daytime. They were waiting, they were _always_ waiting, but…

…it might be the last time he cried.

"It's alright, Fuji." No, it wasn't. It wasn't bloody alright: he was responsible for all this, and here he stood like an overgrown cry-baby and got comforted by the very woman he'd almost- "It's alright ta cry."

"It's not", he sobbed, choking on shame and pressing her close as if she'd dissolve in smoke if he let go – god, he was pathetic… "I should-"

"Ye should what?" she murmured into his shoulder, rubbing warm, comforting circles onto his back. "Sign a contract fer each friend that gets hurt? Fight demons by day an' bargain with 'em at night, until ye got nothin' left ta sell?" She turned her head in his arms and planted a soft kiss on his jaw. "Ye've got the heart of a lion, Fuji, but even lions can't protect everyone."

He could have, if he had cared to watch his emotions properly. But he had been weak. Selfish. But most of all, he'd been human. It's in human nature to love, to mourn, to feel: it's in human nature to _want_ to feel. Yet, feelings aren't good at thinking, and so here he was: harming people he loved because of his human nature. As much as he wanted to – as much as his _feelings_ wanted to –, he could not allow himself to repeat that mistake.

"I won't make a deal with him, or any other demon", he whispered thickly, closing his eyes and breathing in the smell of her hair. "I promise."


	50. Poison

They look human, but they're not. They act human, but they're not.

The difference…?

They can do anything. Anything at all.

They're not human.

They're monsters.

* * *

Many years ago, in elementary school, Shiro's class had gone on a trip to Kyoto. Cultural visit. Looking at historical buildings and such. On the schedule had been a visit to Gion, the old geisha district, where they had watched a tea ceremony performance. The old geisha had seemed like a mechanical doll on the stage: she folded the fukusa cloth with the expertise of endless practice, fit edge to edge with minute precision under softly billowing hands. She had wiped the rim of the cup the exact number of degrees counter-clockwise, then wiped the scoop: first the flat side, thin sides, flat side… and lingering a perfected unit of time at the head of it, before removing the cloth and setting the scoop down on the tea caddy. Shiro remembered it as one of the most boring afternoons in his life.

And still, as he mixed herbal tinctures under Matsuri-sensei's supervision, the tea ceremony was what came to mind. His hands moved, smoothly, flawlessly: mechanically. There was neither hurry, nor delay, no superfluous motions: only… perfection, just like the old geisha in Kyoto had performed it. Perfection, of the kind only achieved when humanity is absent.

Shiro hadn't wanted to detach fully from his emotions before. He had clung to the hope that he could remain the same, but when hope proved a lie it was almost a blessing to let go. Detach. Bury it all in numbness. Hope, emotion, regret: vibrant leaves falling from the tree of life, leaving the black skeleton standing naked against winter white. The bones of the world picked bare by the vultures of functionality. Edges smudged by emotional caress were cut sharp by the raw aesthetic of purpose. A mathematical equation. A straight line hunt for the x to solve the problem at hand.

"Excellent work, Fujimoto-kun", Matsuri-sensei praised as he corked the three bottles of pale orange liquid. "Now, as you are all aware, the target is an elderly woman living alone just a few blocks from our current position. She should be out hunting by now. Fujimoto-kun and I will administer the injection; Yasushi-san and Minamoto-san stand guard and search the house for potential unforeseen elements. Once we have finished our work, we take cover in a neighbouring garden and wait for the demon to return: approximately three minutes after it does, we will re-enter the house and collect the remains." She scanned their faces in the flashlight, one by one. "Is everyone clear on our procedure?"

"Yes", three voices confirmed in unison.

Irony. The taste of surly humour attempting in vain to curl his lips. Esquires normally didn't get to participate in missions that involved exorcism of humanoid demons: psychological aspects postponed it to more experienced years. That he was allowed to come meant that they either thought he could handle it, or that they knew he could. Bearing in mind that the "they" in charge of delegating missions was Mephisto, it could be either.

* * *

There were two other senior exorcists on the team, Matsuri-sensei aside: one Knight and one Tamer. Their black robes merged seamlessly with the night as they moved along the quiet streets of one of True Cross Town's suburbs, known to offer a wide range of recreational activities. It was a high-income district, where spacious villas slept peacefully in lush green nests on each side of the sloping road – although the same couldn't be said of their tenants.

Police had failed to find anybody – or anything – responsible for the night-time attacks that had struck throughout the area. There were no fingerprints, no hairs, no nothing: only half-eaten bodies left in the streets, and people speaking of shrieks so terrifying they couldn't even find the strength to crawl out of bed and call for help.

What puzzled the police was obvious to an exorcist: nukekubi. A rot-type demon that possessed corpses and suspended its own decay by feeding on live humans.

Nukekubi were special, in the sense that they were among few demons that were _weaker_ at night: at night their heads detached from their bodies to hunt, while the body was left behind in a lifeless and highly vulnerable state. The hassle was rather that of locating them. Nukekubi hid in plain sight, snugly integrated among the humans they fed on. The two telltale signs to identify one was to look for bad breath, combined with a line of red marks surrounding the neck where the head detached.

Another ironic smile passed by Shiro's muscles: on the right side of the law, and still picking locks in the dead of night.

The door to the villa opened with a creak that made him cringe, but that was old reactions from an old life. Sound didn't matter when nukekubi was the tarbet: no head, no ears. Yasushi and Minamoto went first, at the ready should unexpected events occur. It was indeed the home of a dead person: dust hung thick in the stuffy air and made them all spontaneously cover their mouths, even though nukekubi didn't emit any noxious vapours. Picture frames, porcelain figures, reading glasses, hand lotion, hair combs - a steady stream of impressions fed his brain, to be sorted and sifted for useful information.

In one room, the lonesome ray of flashlight ghosted over photographs of grandchildren and what seemed to be grandchildren's children. In another, it found the kamidana; the altar to honour Shinto gods. Its remains lay scattered over the tatami mats, broken porcelain and moulding straw that didn't suit the tastes of the new inhabitant.

They found her in the fourth room, behind shoji doors painted with pines and cranes. Flashlight fell quivering on the old lady, who lay sleeping on her futon just like a human would. There was no head on the pillow, only a gaping hole into the red vaults of the ribcage; lungs framed by wetly glistening collarbones, and the top of the spine spilling noodle-like nerve ends and thick-walled blood vessels. No wonder they didn't give this kind of mission to newbies.

They split from there; Shiro and Matsuri-sensei entering the room while the other exorcists went to complete the search. Shiro rolled down the duvet without a word. Threadbare skin covered her arms, painted with the pale spots of old age and the Braille creases of time. So thin, looking like it would tear if he touched it too roughly.

She still… wore her wedding ring…

Assembling needle and syringe went swift, despite the splinted finger. His fingers knew, with minds of their own. With measured ease they fit components together, plucked a vial from his belt, drew liquid out through the cork. Flawless. Mechanical. Tea ceremony.

Part of him was genuinely interested in how he could preserve such calm when faced with a mutilated, perfectly human body. Another part of him saw no body at all but an objective, a problem with a solution: an equation with an x about to be injected into it. There was, he noted with no particular interest, a part of him that had no problem with killing humanoid creatures.

There was one more reason exorcism of such demons was reserved for more experienced exorcists: discretion. Nukekubi looked human. _Other_ humans would panic if they saw some black-robed figure shoot a man dead in the street, or slice a woman in half with a sword. Furthermore, if it became public knowledge that any one in the neighbourhood could be a disguised demon... Shiro knew enough of the witch hunts that had taken place in Europe to imagine the mass hysteria and vigilante mobs that could give rise to. It was in everybody's interest to keep a low profile on operations like these, which was mostly done through lethal injection. The head couldn't survive daytime without its body, and once it re-attached and set the heart pumping again, toxins would spread and kill the demon within three minutes. To the untrained public eye, it would look like nothing more than a case of ruptured aneurism.

Shiro placed the tip of the needle to a vein in the right arm of the corpse and let it sink the few necessary millimetres into the skin before emptying it.

"Matsuri-san", hissed Minamoto from the door to the hall. "Come. We have a problem."

They had seven problems, lying in headless sleep in the basement under the house. One more peculiarity of the nukekubi: sometimes they disguised themselves as human families.

"That changes things", Matsuri-sensei agreed, her eyebrows furrowing as she tapped her lower lip in thought. "We need to exterminate all of them, but we can't explain eight ruptured aneurisms…"

"We can burn the house", Shiro suggested coolly. "Inject the bodies, open the gas vault on the stove, torch the place once the nukekubi come back. It would still look like an accident."

Matsuri-sensei glanced at him but never voiced the question in her eyes. She checked her watch instead, measuring out how much time they had spent and how much they might approximately have left.

"A crude plan but an efficient one. Very well: turn on the stove, Fujimoto-kun. Then withdraw to the meeting point. You've done well on a mission of this degree. Yasushi-san, Minamoto-san: we will inject the poison and withdraw."

Shiro handed her the remaining vials – _measured, mechanical_ – and turned back up the narrow wooden stairs. Turn right into the small kitchen, pass the dirty plates and rotting leftovers in the sink, turn the valve. Old woman, old stove: the kind that didn't have an automatic shutoff valve that triggered if the gas was on without flame. Back into the hallw-

_krk_

_krk-k-k-krrk_

There's nothing quite like the sound of bone grinding against bone to set one's nerves on edge. The light of his torch met with a pudgy body in peach-coloured night robe, staggering and twitching towards him over the kitchen floor. It's feet angled oddly, spine not in place. There was no control in the movements: no _mind._ The head was still screwing itself stuck on her shoulders, feathery white hair smearing fine lines of blood over round glasses that looked just like his. The old woman blinked at him, smiled at him; opened her mouth to-

 _The screech of a nukekubi can cause auditory canal haemorrhage and loss of consciousness at close distance.  
_  
Gun.  
 __  
The gas is on.

Shiro flipped the flashlight around in his hand and swung the butt end with crushing precision into the demon's temple. The head swivelled, creaking on its spine and stretching the skin that was stitching itself together along the red marks.

"They're coming back!" he barked, stepping aside to dodge the claws as the demon swept blindly at him.

It was harder to ignore the part of him saying this was an old lady, now that she moved. Hard, but not impossible. Shiro juggled the flashlight to his impeded right hand, grasped a handful of her hair in his left, and kicked up. His knee met her throat with the muffled crunch of cartilage deforming. No larynx, no voice, no scream.  
 _  
Three minutes until the poison takes effect._

Three minutes is a long time to hold against a demon, unarmed.  
 _  
Kitchen knife.  
_  
Shiro lunged for the holder on the counter, only to send it crashing down on the floor when the old lady yanked his other arm with demonic strength. Momentum dragged them both down on the floor, the lone ray of light rolling over the carpeting as they wrestled for control. He fumbled blindly for a knife, found a handle: stabbed into her arm to sever the tendons and loosen her grip. The demon hissed, baring row upon row of barbed-wire teeth behind parched lips.  
 __  
Internal damage takes a demon around 40% longer time to heal than superficial injury.

She would screech soon, and he would be dead.

A long, green-furred body wormed itself around the demon, and when the creature's teeth sank into the hand around Shiro's throat he glimpsed boar's tusks and yellow eyes. No familiar he had heard of, but the distraction was appreciated.

He tore himself free, grabbed the nukekubi's hair, and used as much force as he dared to slam her face into the floor; he raised the knife and lodged the blade deep between the second and third vertebrae in her neck.

"Fujimoto-kun, what are-?"

"Preventing it from screaming."

Nerves severed, the body's movements became weak and uncoordinated in the familiar's serpent grip. Shiro wasted no time grabbing a sashimi knife from the floor, tugging the head up, and slashing the throat off above the larynx. He forced sawing motions through her flesh, hot blood making the handle slippery, gurgling noises and thrashing growing weaker: digging his fingers into the wet heat, he grabbed hold of the jaw and wrenched the head off her spine.

The body went limp. No sound was heard, save the voiceless wheezing of breath from the head. Shiro grabbed its hair anew to keep the head from flying away, only to find that he was stuck. His hand was stuck. The fingers he had dug into the wound to tear her head off were stuck. The flesh was regenerating, crawling out over his fingers and _merging_.

Somewhere deep below the surface of Shiro's mind, panic surged up like acid reflux.

"Get that off immediately!"

Minamoto didn't need to tell him: Shiro jerked his hand free before the Tamer had even finished the sentence. Holding his hand up, he turned it back and forth in the torch light, inspecting it for damage. The merging hadn't gone very far. The nukekubi's flesh hung in shrivelled strips from it, like shed skin: no signs of the burns associated with ghoul injuries.

"Looks alright, but get it checked with Matsuri-san when she comes up. Better safe than sorry", Minamoto grunted. The green weasel familiar had climbed up on his shoulder and sniffed curiously at the hand its master was inspecting. "The question is what we're going to do with that." He aimed his torch down at the head hanging from Shiro's other hand.

It was still alive. It wiggled and tossed, what little room for movement his grip on its hair allowed.

" _How come it doesn't regenerate the neck?_ " Shiro wondered with a clinician's unaffected interest, turning the head in his hands to inspect the severed point. The muscles there worked feebly, as on a fish lying on ice in the food market, but no signs of regeneration were visible. His eyes wandered to the body below him, where the rest of the neck was- " _It doesn't regenerate a body part that is still attached, either to the body or to the head._ " Good to know.

"The bodies have received the injections", Matsuri-sensei reported, joining the Tamer and the Knight in the hallway. "How are you, Fujimoto-kun?" Urgency broke the professional tone. "Are you injured?"

"Might be." He felt his body rise, while feelings swam hysterically under the surface of his detachment. "I'd need you to take a look at my hand when we've assembled at meeting point. I came in contact with nukekubi body fluids while it regenerated but I think I'm alright." The head tugged fervently in his hand. "What do we do with this?"

Disgust. Horror. There were many things to be read on their pale faces; the Knight apparently couldn't stomach to even look at the head.

"We might have to keep it like that", Minamoto mused gravely. "It will only cause trouble if we let it go. We're ready to burn the house down, aren't we?"

The head wheezed furiously and tried to bite him several times. Shiro stood by the garden pond, an unlit cigarette lolling between his lips, while the other exorcists returned the body to its futon and cleaned off the kitchen as best they could.

"Murderer!" it hissed, unable to produce more than whisper without vocal cords. "Exorsssisst ssscum!" Threats and saliva and curses flew from its lips: but when Matsuri-sensei gave them signal to draw back to the park across the road, the hissing became pleas and promises. "We will leave, boy: I swear it. We leave this city, leave Japan. We will never trouble you."

Shiro didn't reply.

* * *

There was nothing out of the ordinary with his hand, but Matsuri-sensei administered some ointment on it anyway. After that, they waited. The sky had begun to blush a pale grey when the first head returned. The old woman's head whispered frantically for them to turn back, turn back, but her voice didn't reach them. Within a minute or two all seven had returned: and Shiro lit his cigarette.

"Good luck", he said, shutting his lighter and handing it over to the Knight.

"No! No! My children!"

The exorcists jogged down to the garden: two to seal doors and windows with wards, and one heading to the window they had left open at the back of the house.

"My children…!"

Dawn flared golden, and the whisper drowned in roaring flames.

* * *

The house was only a glowing skeleton of blackened beams by the time Shiro ground out the cigarette under his boot. Matsuri-sensei's short, robed silhouette was displaying her exorcist license and explaining the situation to the firemen and the police at the scene. Shiro still stood in the park, watching. Detached. Ever since the day he cried in Kasumi's arms, he had remained detached. Taking risks and succumbing to temptation were luxuries he couldn't afford anymore.

The head had gone chalk white in his grasp, tongue hanging out and eyes rolled back into the skull. It was silent now. He hadn't heard it over the fire, but he had felt the muscles under the skin work as its jaws and lips had repeated the same words over and over.

_My children._

* * *

They look human, but they're not.

They act human, but they're not.

They can do anything.

…and he who fights with monsters might take care, lest he thereby become a monster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N**
> 
> **Nietzsche quote** , I think you all recognised that.
> 
>  **Nukekubi** don't have bad breath, not that I know, but I thought they must have if they chew raw flesh every night. =/ I don't know if they traditionally detach neck-and-head, or just head; but if they attack by screaming, then it would make sense to me if the neck and the vocal cords came along. (Never mind how they force air through the windpipe without lungs~)
> 
>  **Ramidreju** is the name of a Spanish creature: supposedly a weasel with a snake-like body, green fur, yellow eyes, and a boar's head. Its fur is said to cure any and every disease.


	51. Potion

Shiro didn't notice anything different, at first, with the sparring sessions he still kept up with Mephisto. The demon was still far better than he was; far stronger, far swifter. He was still a tease, still pushed all the right buttons, still-

_Shiro didn't notice anything different._

…and when he had realised that, he also realised that telling Mephisto about it might not be a wise thing to do.


	52. 2/6

So… how had he been made to come along on this again…? Heavens knew Shiro was _not_ in the mood for amusement parks, yet here he was: kicking up dust on Mepphy Land's sunbaked asphalt in blue jeans and a threadbare old _Rolling Stones_ t-shirt. And Mephisto had already bought himself one balloon, one pinwheel, five packs of puccho candy, three of Hi-Chew, and two servings of takoyaki.

Between the art of politics, hair-flipping and whatnot, Mephisto's greatest artistic talent was, beyond a doubt, pestering-you-until-you-comply. Going to Mepphy Land had been on his to-do-list all summer, and now that holidays were down to the last week he was _dead set_ on going: and would drag Shiro along by the hair if need be. Their bet over the noodles hadn't helped, of course. If there was anything Mephisto _loathed_ , other than uncleanliness and chewing gum, it was to be in debt. So yeah: to Mepphy Land they went.

" _…should I ask him?_ " No, the possible uses for that information were too many. " _I could ask around the subject out of general interest. No need to mention it has practical application._ " Mephisto would see through that. Mephisto was the _god_ of words and riddles, dammit: he would see through his attempts at worming information out of him. " _I'll gather my own information. It should be enough just to observe and draw conclusions. 'Cause, evidently…_ "

Nothing was different.

" _Everything is different._ "

There are various eyes, and as a result there are various truths. Nietzsche, was it? Germans and their damn consonants… Philosophy didn't come naturally to Shiro - or at least it hadn't, until he had had reason to question everything he thought he knew. Demons, exorcists, and those who were both and neither… it was a different world alright. Various eyes, various truths: various worlds. Glancing idly from face to face of the people that passed them by, he wondered what kind of truths their eyes saw. What kind of worlds the people around him perceived. Not the same as he did, that much was for certain. Pff, there must be six billion different worlds, as many as there were people with eyes to see it: and the only truth was that nobody truly knew what the world looked like.

His own world…? Shiro felt like he was watching it from a distance while everybody else trotted around unawares, like a scientist observing colonies of bacteria through a microscope. Queues and moving throngs of people provided him snippets of conversation about alien things like school plays, obnoxious colleagues, the upcoming Bon festival, or inviting close friends over for supper. The funny part was that those were everyday things. In some worlds.

"Keep brooding and you will have worry lines before thirty, young man."

Shiro's own world was brought back into focus by the merry chiding from one who was both an obnoxious colleague and a close friend.

"I thought we'd established that it would be a miracle if I even reached thirty?" he returned quicker than he could think.

"Live fast, die young, leave a beautiful corpse: won't accomplish that last one if you keep at it like this. Contrary to popular belief, I can't read minds", Mephisto confided with casual ease, "but it's no sport guessing what's eating yours."

That look. That green gaze from the corner of an eye: so very watchful, despite the drooping lids.

_Various eyes… various truths… and just how much of the world did those green eyes see?_

"You're lucky, Shiro: in many ways. Your slip-up could have ended much worse than it did." What a piece of art it was, that voice. Merry and casual as ever: and sincerity slipped discreetly in between the words, where you wouldn't notice it if you didn't know where to look. "And the women are easily numbered who would be mutilated by their partners and still forgive with honest heart. Fool's luck indeed." Mephisto shot him a knowing smirk. "Who knows? You might even make it to thirty."

* * *

To say that Mephisto cared about his well-being may have been an exaggeration – at least if you asked the clown himself. Nonetheless, he put surprising effort into coaxing Shiro out of his gloom that day. One could almost be fooled into thinking the old demon had a human strain in him.

"You make such poor company when you drift off in thought."

…almost. But the blunt confession still made Shiro release a huff of laughter.

"Well, if it's action you want, I know one thing we could try." Shiro drawled his words, feeling the familiar wolfish grin return to his lips as an idea took shape. "And if I win, I won't have to dye my hair pink this semester." Because he _really_ didn't look forward to having this hair on his school ID card. "Are you up to it?" he asked, nodding his head at the colourful air gun stand ambiguously named _Mepphy Shooting_.

"You can hardly pick your home-ground for combat zone and expect me to step up to the challenge."

No, it would require some fine-tuned smooth talking first. Petting the dog and all that.

"I seem to recall I challenged _you_ on _your_ home-ground last year, when I cut your hair", Shiro reminded with a shit-eating grin, knowing full well that taunting the dog can also work. If you know the dog.

"I shouldn't need to remind you that _you_ are reckless beyond belief, while _I_ am a tactician."

"Fancy way of saying you're too chicken to go outside your comfort zone." Yeah, that hit the right spot. Time to switch stick for carrot and sweeten the deal: "If you win, I'll let you pick what I wear this semester when I'm not wearing school uniform. _Anything you like_ , until Christmas."

Oh, how his pointy ears twitched with interest at that! Shiro's _Rolling Stones_ t-shirt was doomed, as were his pride and reputation. Mephisto was tempted, very much so… but not quite convinced.

"I know firearms is your forte", he remarked with translucent disinterest. "That you would wager such a thing only serves to show my odds of winning are next to nil."

"Oi, I've got a splinted trigger finger." Shiro wiggled the recuperating appendage. "Is that not handicap enough for your royal wimpiness?"

That did the trick. Mephisto unloaded his food and souvenirs on the shooting range counter, and Shiro paid for two from his nowadays delightfully well-fed wallet.

The following five minutes confirmed that while Shiro was indeed a reckless idiot, he also had the qualities of an observant tactician.

Demons have all the weapons they need from birth: claws, fangs, strength – some have magic, too. Humans don't stand a chance against that, and so create swords, guns, grenades and seals to even out the odds. Point being, humans rely on tools and demons rely on innate ability.

Mephisto had excellent motor control, as demons generally had. He was skilled with objects that worked as an extension of his body, such as swords, fans, and game controllers: projectiles, on the other hand… Demons have no use for long-range weapons: with their immense strength and regenerative abilities, they are predisposed for close combat. The opposite is true for humans, who benefit from ranged weaponry and having demons as far away from themselves as possible when fighting. All in all, when a human challenges a demon in the use of projectile weapons, it can really only end one way.

Yep, there was one more thing Mephisto loathed, besides uncleanliness, chewing gums, and being in debt: humiliation. Man, did he hate a humiliating loss.

Very few knew that Mephisto had a temper – in fact, Shiro was willing to bet that _no one_ knew that, save the servants of Faust Mansion who had been privy to the outbursts when an arcade game high score narrowly slipped their master's grasp. The reason no one knew was, of course, that Mephisto very rarely lost. The other reason no one knew was that when he did lose, pride forbade him to let the frustration show. Because the King of Time was always _in control_ : of his games, of his environment, of himself.

…but he did make an adorable face when he sulked.

"So, you win. Not very unexpected."

Mephisto had taken his sweets and his souvenirs and left, before Shiro had even collected his prize.

"One moment, please!" the vendor cried after him when he'd started to jog after Mephisto. Shiro had a heel-turn and stuffed the plushie in under his arm to cup his hands together for something the vendor was holding out to him.

"Give Faust-san this, if you would be so kind? As a consolation prize." The wiry vendor dropped the matchstick-sized toys in Shiro's palm with a plastic clatter.

Shiro had in all honesty intended to give the plushie to Mephisto – a huge white cat that looked more like a bread bun wasn't something he would ever have use for – but seeing the consolation prize… yeah. _This_ was the right gift for the moping old clown. No doubt about it.

"Thank you", he said, and set off jogging at medium pace. Mephisto had already made it to the picturesque little pavilion that housed the cotton candy booth but was easy to spot with his height. "Hey, wait up!" And his ears were still dipping at a very displeased angle. "Here. The vendor got you a consolation prize."

"I don't need any consolation prize", he grumbled, biting off a wad of cotton candy that was not even remotely consolatory in nature. Not at all.

"No, but you never say no to free toys", Shiro returned with a smile and dangled the keychain with the two miniature mecha robots in. "Come on, it's a gift."

"Keep it."

"You're the one who's crazy about mecha anime", he pointed out, half jogging to keep up when Mephisto stalked ahead on his long legs. "And you're the master of keys."

"I already have a keychain."

"Have one more, then. They'll go fine with the dice for your collection." He slid the ring with the mini-mechas onto the nave of Mephisto's pinwheel. "There: something to remember me by. Or at least remember what a pain in the ass I can be."

"Hmpf. Why would I want to commemorate a debacle?" His reply was a curt snort - but even so, he caught the keychain as it dropped off the pinwheel.

Yeah, why…? The smile of a much older man ghosted the Esquire's lips when he spoke:

"'Cause it's the bad things in life that teach you to treasure the good ones." No, philosophy hadn't been a natural part of Shiro's thinking. It was a cheesy thing to say, one he had never expected to hear himself say... But then he hadn't expected himself to bite off a girl's face, either. Tch... It's one of those lessons in life you have to fail before you lear-

"You sound like Johann."

Shiro snapped abruptly back to their conversation.

"Hm? You were saying?"

"It was one of those things Johann used to say when he wanted to make fun of me", the demon smiled to himself, hooking the keychain ring up with his claw and letting it slide down over his finger so as not to drop it. "He claimed it was one of the fundamental things that set humans apart from demons - and that it was something I, as a demon, would never understand, no matter how vast a knowledge of the human race I boasted. Naturally, I contradicted him." Naturally. _Besserwisser_ was another word Shiro had learnt from Mephisto: a consequence of the many times he lacked a proper word for the demon's bigheaded stubbornness. "Posthumously, I suppose I will have to give him right."

"Keep talking: I'll just nod and pretend I get what you're rambling about", Shiro enlightened as they rounded the brightly coloured house of mirrors and made for the slowly churning ferris wheel.

"The highest highs and the lowest lows of human existence." Mephisto's voice took on that special lilt, as if he were reciting verse without rhyme. "That's what he asked of me. All of life's pleasures I could understand", he mused, twirling the cotton candy stick absentmindedly between his fingers, "but I have never been asked to bestow all of life's suffering before. Or after. And yet Johann would claim that was the yearning at the core of every human heart. That pain would somehow add flavour to bliss. That inevitable loss made the battle sweeter than any victory." His brow furrowed in dissonant annoyance. "And when I claimed it was a simple matter of contrast and comparison, he just laughed at me."

"Suppose I'm not the only one who thinks it's fun to annoy you, then." Shiro's smile didn't quite reach his eyes. Just how similar were he and Johann? Was he really just a replacement...?

"Oh, you're far worse than he ever was…" Mephisto muttered – and made Shiro's face crack into a full-blown grin. The old goat may not have been able to read minds, but then again much of the time he didn't seem to need it.

* * *

Nothing was different. As much as it puzzled him, Shiro couldn't help but enjoy it. He enjoyed the food, the rides, the games – both he and Mephisto scored top results on the High Striker, and were rewarded life-sized plushies of Mephisto's dog form. Mephisto himself was not amused when Shiro drew angry eyebrows on his prize, to which Shiro merely replied that his irked face only made him look more like the modified plushie animal. He then proceeded with drawing dark crescents under its eyes, whereupon Mephisto poofed away his marker pen.

Nothing was different. And rather than wonder what dark truth lay behind that, Shiro chose to linger in the fleeting present and treasure the good moments life offered.

"So, what are your thoughts of tomorrow?" the demon asked, finishing his last takoyaki ball as coloured lanterns began to light the dusk around them. Mepphy Land was closing for the day, and a slight evening chill had surfaced out of the ground to help herd the visitors towards the exit.

"You tell me", Shiro replied, drawing a shallow breath on his cigarette. "It's a closed hearing with only the Arch Knights and the Branch Directors invited – how worried should I be?"

That is, would Mephisto have his back, or would he be on his own? It was something Shiro had thought of asking, ever since he had found the letter in his mail compartment. Now the hearing was only a night away, and he hadn't asked. Not straight out, at least. He wouldn't get a straight answer anyway, so he didn't see the need to bother.

…and relying on others had never been something he was good at.

"None too much, I'd say. They called you for a hearing, not a trial – which might only serve to let Beaumonde roast you without fearing objections from the Grigori, but what use is worry in situations like this?" Mephisto replied good-naturedly. "Make a good impression and leave the rest to the Knights."

Leave the rest to the Knights? Or to the Honorary Knight?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N**  
>  **Hi-Chew** is a type of edible chewing gum. I think Mephisto would dislike chewing gum for several reasons: it's unhygienic to spit out food, it sticks everywhere, and it's something you taste but don't actually eat (like being teased with something pleasant but never allowed to consume it?).
> 
>  **One of the things I love Goethe for** is all those existential observations woven into the verses. I don't know what the German version says, but this is the one I have:
> 
>  
> 
> Faust: _But thou hast heard, 'tis not of joy we're talking._  
>  I take the wildering whirl, enjoyment's keenest pain,  
> Enamored hate, exhilarant disdain.  
> My bosom, of its thirst for knowledge sated,  
> Shall not, henceforth, from any pang be wrested,  
> And all of life for all mankind created  
> Shall be within mine inmost being tested:  
> The highest, lowest forms my soul shall borrow,  
> Shall heap upon itself their bliss and sorrow,  
> And thus, my own sole self to all their selves expanded,  
> I too, at last, shall with them all be stranded!


	53. A future bright with shadows

" _Walking the plank_ ", some humorous side of him commented, as Shiro strode out on the narrow ledge above the black abyss.

Not that it had to be like that. It all depended on the decision the Knights made, after hearing him. All the highest officials of the Order, gathered at the Round table… He kept his gaze firmly fixed on a spot above the head of Leon Beaumonde, the Paladin, whose seat was at the far end of the long table. Ledges like his own reached out to the platform suspended at the centre of the room, each ending with a ridiculously high-backed chair. Shiro could see the purple curl of hair bobbing on the right-hand side… but he wouldn't betray his insecurity by seeking the Japanese Branch Director's eyes for support.

At the far end of the ledge – the plank – he stopped.

"So, as we are all gathered, I declare this hearing opened", said the first speaker; an aging European man with a prominent scar over the ridge of his nose. He didn't say it in Japanese, of course not: but for a meeting hosting Branch Directors from all over the world, Mephisto had been tasked to place a spell on the room that let every tongue spoken be understood by the rest as if it had been their own. "One, you are not allowed to speak unless addressed. Two, you are forbidden to repeat any aspect of the details discussed in this meeting. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"State your full name and affiliation, please."

"Fujimoto Shiro, Esquire, student at True Cross Academy in Japan, sir." His voice rang loud and clear in the aged stone arcs, bounced around and fell flat on the stern atmosphere.

"And you are aware why you have been called here, Mr. Fujimoto?"

"I have been called because I attacked a woman while I was possessed. And because I am a potential vessel for Satan."

The man with the scar cast a quick glance down at his papers before he spoke again:

"Four months ago, when Sir Pheles reported your unusual compatibility with demons to us, you were permitted to keep your status as student at True Cross Academy on the condition that you learnt to shield yourself against demonic possession." Having gotten the digits and details right, he took his sharp gaze from the paper and levelled it at Shiro. "Could you tell us about that development these months, Fujimoto?"

Shiro gave a methodical account of how he had become more and more apt at detaching from heart and emotion, how he meditated to maintain his focus under pressure, and how he had neglected to do either when spending time with his love interest. It did strike him that it would be tactical to linger on how much Kasumi meant to him, to use his youth and affection as excuse for the misconduct; maybe tug a few heartstrings around the table…

" _And confirm just how rotten I am_ ", he huffed darkly at the fancy, and related the event the way it had been: that he had been careless and caused a young woman irreparable damage, although it wasn't going to impede her everyday life.

"Are there any further questions to Fujimoto?" asked Nose-scar and swept a glance over the variety of faces along the table.

"I have a question", spoke a dark-skinned woman with hair like woven iron. "How come you are able to host Satan, Fujimoto? What makes you different from others?"

"I think that question is best answered by Sir Pheles, ma'am", he replied, and all gazes turned to the one attendant who seemed to enjoy all this.

"Why, I fear I will have to disappoint you, dear colleagues." There was a noticeable cringe, like ripples on water, travelling through the line of seated Knights. "All I can tell you is that Fujimoto-kun is different; how or why, I know no more than you."

"How do you know he's different, then, Honorary Knight?" Beaumonde inquired, using rank to make it perfectly clear that he considered no demon his colleague.

Mephisto was pleased; Shiro could tell. Pleased to have gotten the reaction he wanted out of the hostile Paladin. And the Paladin hadn't even realised that he had been baited. Once again, Shiro was reminded that while it was obvious to him how demons acted and why, others could be completely blind to it. Even if they were considered to be the Order's highest ranked exorcists.

Mephisto braided his gloved fingers together and placed them neatly atop his crossed legs.

"No one knows the human heart like a demon", he responded with one of those _sincere_ smiles he reserved for psychological warfare. "I can tell he's different, but I cannot explain it to you any more than I can explain the scent of a soul."

"Then, is it possible there could be others like him?" the iron-haired woman resumed when she was given the word.

"I doubt it", Mephisto replied. "No human or demon has ever heard of a mortal able to host the God of Gehenna. Fujimoto-kun is a unique anomaly, a twist of fate with uncharted possibilities."

"In that case, I think he should be withdrawn from exorcist education post haste." A man with a big beard and a bucket-shaped headdress shot him a measuring glance.

" _Shot_ it _a measuring glance_ ", Shiro corrected himself as the man spoke again:

"We're not serving Satan his meat-suit on a silver plate, that's all I'm saying. I know this won't sit well with you, and it doesn't sit well with me either, but there is no margin for error here. The boy should be treated like all other dangerous artefacts: kept somewhere safe, for his own good and ours. Studied, if possible, to find out why he's compatible. We might even figure out how to prevent anomalies like him from arising in the future."

"Make him a lab rat, is that what you suggest? You know full well there's no walls or wards that can keep Satan out if he wants in", snapped a man Shiro recognised as Deslauriers; the man whose wife he had saved in the attack on Kiridani Ryokan. "The only wall we need to worry about is the one in Fujimoto's mind, and I've witnessed with my own eyes that he's perfectly capable of keeping that in place on the frontlines!"

"Order, Deslauriers", Beaumonde's deep, unrelenting voice smothered his countryman's. "You wish to leave reply, Nikodim?"

"I do", said the Beard, turning his attention to Deslauriers. "What if he's captured? What if demons grab him and torture him till he slips? We're all human, that's the point I'm trying to make", he said, gesturing with a thick, square lumberjack's hand. "Humans make mistakes. Most of us can afford that, but he can't. Better not take the risk at all in his case."

"Nikodim has a point", stated a Chinese exorcist whose eyes were so narrowly slitted that she seemed to be talking in her sleep. "We are the ruling body of the exorcist society. It is on our shoulders to make the decisions. They may be tough and they may be easy, but they must always be made for the benefit of the society as a whole. As exorcists it is our duty to sacrifice ourselves for the people we protect. As an exorcist, Fujimoto has declared that he is prepared to sacrifice himself for the people. This may not be the way you intended to do that", she said, turning to him and parting her eyelids ever so slightly, "but I trust you will understand that we must decide what is best for the many."

Shiro felt his heart sink in his chest at the many nods and murmurs in favour of this course of action. No, they couldn't do that – they couldn't lock him away in some Deep Keep cell and-

"If I may?" chimed Mephisto's familiar cadence. "The best defence is a good offense, I believe it's said. Rather than deny Fujimoto the training that would allow him to defend himself against such attempts, why not let him develop his full potential?" he suggested glibly, spreading his hands. "He does have a remarkable amount of it."

"Enough to hold his own against hordes of high-level demons?"

It was a good thing Shiro was forbidden to speak unless spoken to, or he might have delivered a snide retort to Beaumonde's barely concealed disdain. As it were, he didn't need to.

"Enough to hold his own against me", Mephisto responded pleasantly. "I owe my new haircut to our sparring." He flipped the decimated tress of purple hair and met the surprised glances with an easy smile.

" _Leave the rest to the Honorary Knight_ ", Shiro repeated quietly to himself.

"As I'm sure you already know, Fujimoto-kun is a swiftly rising star in the Japanese Branch of the Order", Mephisto continued, weaving twirling trails of words to lead his colleagues down the garden path. "His expertise spans all five disciplines of exorcism; a field of work which he, if you'd excuse me for reminding you, was unfamiliar with up until a year ago. In this short time he has become the Academy's highest ranked Dragoon, secured the respect of Japan's most prominent family of Tamers, and been trusted to partake as Doctor in missions reserved for Junior Middle Class exorcists and higher. He is, in the best sense of the word, _unique_." A hand in purple glove swept gracefully in his direction. "Unknown potential stands here before us, perhaps the first of a new breed of exorcists in the Order's long history; and we would rather throw away this talent than make use of it? A terrible waste, I say."

"A precaution", replied the same Chinese exorcist. "The Order has long experience with fighting demons without making uncertain gambles."

"I was a gamble when I was first accepted into the Order", he reminded softly, "and the addition of my abilities has brought you naught but advantages, even if I am a demon. And, if you excuse me for getting personal, Mrs. Long; are you not descended from the white snake demons of Zhejiang?" he inquired as if just recalling a pleasant anecdote. Mrs. Long showed no reaction to this, but made no move to deny it either. She simply sat, still as a viper in wait, and let Mephisto continue: "Long ago, individuals with a heritage like yours would have been a threat unable to serve as part of the Order; now, we consider you an asset for your aptitude at Taming. That, too, was a gamble, and I dare say that the present members of the Order are grateful for it."

"Individuals with a heritage like mine have an affinity for demons, not for Satan himself." Her voice was as thin and precise as a sashimi knife; and when her eyes opened up a bit more to land a warning gaze on Mephisto, they were a clear, venomous green. "Can you guarantee us, then, that he won't be a threat to his comrades? That he won't become possessed again, and harm more people?"

"Guarantee, no. Nothing is ever guaranteed – not even the rise of tomorrow's sun." Mephisto spread his hands in an elegant gesture of unaccountability. "In a world that operates on the shifting laws of uncertainty, the only thing certain is that Chance can, at any time she pleases, turn the tables on Probability and render all our calculations redundant. When every choice is a gamble in its own right, the one thing we can do is trust Lady Chance's judgement when an opportunity like this is presented us."

"Silken words from a split tongue." The Paladin twirled his reservoir pen between his fingers as if he pondered how to kill Mephisto with it. "What you so eloquently try to pass off as fact is that we can't know he won't fall to Satan, and that we should put our trust in him simply because there is also the possibility that he might prevail."

If this was payback for his defending of Mephisto in Court over Christmas, Beaumonde had a _particularly_ nasty habit of holding grudges long past expiration date.

"My good sir, I am willing to prove to you in whatever manner you see fit that my tongue is in no way forked", he replied pleasantly. "What I'm passing off as fact is that we can't calculate with our minds the outcome of our actions, and that the one thing we can then rely on is _faith_." His tongue curled around the word, caressing it gleefully as it leapt from his lips to grate nails over the ears of the Paladin: the Vatican's holiest knight.

" _Oh you're good, you're so damn good, you snake-tongued son of a bitch._ "

"As a demon, I consider myself a good judge of character", Mephisto continued, voice soft and effortlessly resonant in a way that reeled listeners in like fish on hooks. "I have followed Fujimoto-kun's development these past months, beyond the scientific reports I have sent to you. As for trust and faith and where they're due, I implore you to listen carefully, for these are words you aren't likely to hear from me ever again: I would place my life in this young man's hands."

Shiro didn't even register the reactions around the table. He registered nothing after those words. Had Mephisto really said that? Had he... Did he...?

"That might have something to do with Fujimoto being your friend."

The mention of his name tore Shiro's focus back to the meeting, and he started breathing again.

"As I said: a good judge of character", Mephisto deflected the Paladin's snide remark with a beaming, clueless smile. "One has to be careful when choosing friends and careful when choosing enemies – and careful not to get the two mixed-up, non, Beaumonde~?"

Shiro had seen that kind of face before, on Fuji every time he was late for class. That naïve ignorance that almost had you believing he truly didn't understand what he was being accused of.

It's one thing to see such a charade pulled by a harmless teenager, but when Mephisto did it… Shiro couldn't decide if his guts knotted because it was hilarious or because it was ominous. He scanned the faces of the assembled Knights, wondering what truth their eyes saw. Did they see the carefree quirk on display in the high-backed chair…? Or did they see the wicked glint in the corners of that bright smile?

"I think Sir Pheles has made a point that the rest of us have temporarily forgotten." The speaker was a man with skin like a panther, and the resonant voice granted by mass and volume. "Namely that this is a human we're talking about. A young man – in his own country he isn't even a legal adult. And yet he stands here, shouldering a burden no one his age – no one at all – should have to carry." He folded his fingers on the table in front of his burly frame, looking at each and every face at the opposite side. "If we have made gambles by admitting half-demons, then surely we can gamble by admitting an unusually talented human. I'm willing to believe Sir Pheles' account of him. As for the danger he potentially poses, I believe the saying goes 'learning from one's mistakes'." Eyes as black as coal settled on Shiro with the first hint of warmth he'd seen around the table so far. "You've seen the consequences of carelessness, Fujimoto. And I think you've learnt the hard way what carelessness can cost", he spoke softly; sadly.

"I have, sir." The man tipped his rounded face forward, and the black eyebrows rose up. He was... urging Shiro to continue...? "And it's not a mistake I ever want to repeat."

Maybe he made a good impression; maybe Mephisto's smooth speech helped. Maybe Lady Chance was on his side, for once. In either case, Nikodim and Long weren't.

"We can't disregard the complications of Fujimoto's condition", the green-eyed Mrs. Long persisted. "Why is he like this? What makes him different? How can we prevent his type of anomaly? These are questions that need answers – perhaps not by removing him from the field entirely, but at least detain him for a while to study his condition."

Many agreed on that – even Deslauriers, who had spoken out against it so sharply, grudgingly admitted that yes, those questions needed answers. But what if those studies didn't provide any answers? How long would he be "detained"? He didn't like it. He didn't like any of this… this hostility dressed in formal words and clothes. His feet were starting to feel sore from standing still so long, and-

"You say he's a friend of yours, Sir Pheles…?" Nikodim mused slowly, stroking his impressive beard thoughtfully. "And no human or demon has heard of a mortal that can host the Devil. I had never heard of a human having a demon for a friend, either. Could it be the two conditions are related, and that prolonged exposure…?"

Shiro tried not to tense up as the discussion veered dangerously close to the truth. If they pursued this track then- The discussion came to a brusque stop when Mephisto erupted in pealing laughter.

"Ahahah-hah-haah~ forgive me my outburst, dear Knights, but this theory i-hihihis rather entertaining. Why, 'demonicness' isn't transmissible by exposure, like some common cold", he snickered merrily. "Fujimoto-kun's compatibility with demons is innate: an integrated and inseparable aspect of his own essence, present in him from birth. Finding the cause for that is impossible – through your own doing, I should add. Clinical study of the human soul was banished by the Vatican over four hundred years ago. Unless you wish to revive that practice, and condone the wilful manipulation of souls, I fear Fujimoto-kun will remain a mysterious anomaly: a fluke, a one-in-a-billion possibility granted us by Lady Chance", he smiled, knowing perfectly well that the Vatican would never permit that branch of science to rise from the grave. "And if you allow that possibility to remain in the Order's ranks", he added, voice pitching a lower octave, "I will wager the name of the next Paladin is Fujimoto Shiro."

…if he could, he would have stuffed a sock in Mephisto's mouth. As it was, he could only stand still and quietly burn to cinders under Beaumonde's glares.

"So, the devil has named his champion." The dry, chilly tone made Shiro wish he could go poof like Mephisto. "What are your opinions on that, Fujimoto? Do you see yourself as the next Paladin?"

"No, sir. I don't consider myself Paladin material." Damn the old goat, getting carried away like that…!

"That's the one opinion we have neglected to ask, I believe", said the current Paladin, lips curling faintly as he spotted easier prey than Mephisto. "What do you think of yourself, Fujimoto? What do you think of this situation? Should we trust you, as your friend says?"

What did he think of himself? Just what the fuck did Beaumonde think he thought of himself? Tch, but that was the whole point with that double-edged question, wasn't it? Make him bow his head in shame over what had happened, and say that he couldn't be trusted: would look both honest and modest, wouldn't it? Would be all Beaumonde needed to claim that he had consented to be subjected to whatever judgement the asshole Paladin decided on.

Or he could choose the other option. He could hold his chin up in the tattered light of the future he hoped for; claim he could be trusted, and give the impression that he thought Kasumi's injuries could be overlooked in favour of his own ambitions? Oh yes, what a good impression that would make.

...and then there was a third option. Worming in the back of his mind was an option that had developed from the imprint through the many verbal fencing matches he had played against Mephisto: speak like a demon. Pick the right words, twist them the right way, mix truth and lie into the perfect blend that would give him what he wanted.

"What I did was grave. It was a fatal mistake I can't ever forgive myself for", he said levelly, picking words that were picked for him by the unnatural instinct in the back of his mind. "Regret can be either a strong paralytic, or a powerful motivation. In this matter, it will be both. I can never forget the mistake I made, and therefore I will never repeat it. Sir."

After another hour of nerve-wrenching discussion back and forth, of whether he should be detained or not, it was decided by majority vote that Shiro would be allowed to continue his studies and serve as an exorcist: but if he mishandled his obligations one more time, he would be stripped of his rights and serve the Order as an object of study.

* * *

Their footfalls echoed hollow against centuries-old stone that bent its back in arcs above them, as if to peer down on the peculiar duo that marched through the Headquarters' catacombs. The dark corridors reminded Shiro of catacombs, at least, and not in a good way.

" _Is there even a good way for something to resemble catacombs…?_ " he mused, glancing at the Roman statues that adorned shadowy alcoves along their path. "Some sales-pitch, that", he said dryly.

"Not my best performance, but it served its purpose. Wouldn't do for me to make it seem like there was a conflict of interest", he grinned and shot Shiro an impish wink. Hated to lose, loved to win. "You weren't half bad yourself. Really, Shiro, to have a way with words but never showing it is quite-"

"You don't think you could have left out the Paladin-part?" he cut in with a bit more acid to the tone.

"And miss the look on Beaumonde's face?" And all the glee he'd held in during the meeting exploded out of him in mad giggles and flourishing… pirouettes…? "Nihihihiii~ his face when I brought faith into the discussion – aah I couldn't stop looking at it kieheheheheheehee! Dear old stone lion, I'm sure he's twisting his mane into knots right now, thinking of Satan's vessel as the Paladin!" He brought the key ring out of his pocket and sent it up in the air, spun a cackling whirl and caught the right key as they came down. "Haah, the religious: what would the world be without them~?"

The door they reached seemed as ancient as the grey stone enclosing it, its artful iron fittings nearly merging with the grain that rose out of the wood like veins on the back of an old man's hand. The key to Faust Mansion rattled in the complaining lock, and among the jingling keys an out-of-place string of dice was kept company by two equally out-of-place mecha robots.

"Stop screwing arooouund…!" Shiro groaned as they stepped thousands of kilometres into Mephisto's spacious study. "Why'd you have to go and say I would become the friggin' Paladin? Oh, right, 'cause you wanted to piss the current one off – good job with that – but _I'm_ the one stuck with the Gojira-sized expectations on my back!"

He couldn't make him stop, no. Mephisto loved to play; a demon down to the bone who loved to press buttons, pull strings, and lead humans along on whatever merry dance he chose. There was no breaking that addiction: but one thing Shiro would never allow was for the game master to use him as a gambling chip. Once stuck in that shadow web, you would never come out of it.

…and still, he couldn't help but skirt its edges, drawn by an equal measure of fear and admiration for the beauty of it. For the intricate thrills the soft strings whispered of, far below the surface layers of the world.

"Why so heated~? You would make an excellent Paladin, Shiro", the demon smiled blithely.

"Sure, an _excellent_ Paladin", he mimicked snappily. "The only reason I'm not in an isolation cell right fucking now is that Beaumonde wants to see those madman ravings of yours fail, _miserably_ : see _me_ fail miserably! Joke around as much as you want with the guy, I don't care, but don't go dragging _me_ into your crap!"

…Shiro had learnt, over time, to interpret a wide array of Mephisto's grins. There were grins of pure smugness, of gloat, of knowing-what-you-don't, grins of watching people wander lost in his labyrinths of words… and then there was the grin that stabbed him with the sudden remembrance that Mephisto's true name was Samael.

"Joke around…?" he purred low, smiling. "I do no such thing. I'm a good judge of character; and you", he poked a finger in Shiro's forehead, "will accomplish great things in life, little lion."

It was on his tongue to ask about the path of the future, and what forks and turns the King of Time had glimpsed on it. It was on his tongue to ask, but before his mind could question the wisdom in that Mephisto had moved on to other topics: namely, Shiro's hair. Which seemed to offend the demon no matter what was done with it.

"Just what were you thinking?" Mephisto's features settled somewhere in between insult and disgust as he yanked out a white hair.

"Make a good impression on the Knights?" Shiro repeated, rubbing the sore spot on his scalp through the prickly, barely a centimetre long hair. "I thought it would look better if I didn't come in there with pink hair."

"It's horrible", was the short verdict. "You look like a nail brush."

Really, why wasn't he a hairdresser? Weren't they usually gay anyway…? But before Shiro could piece together any prejudiced jibe of that, Belial was at his master's side. With a package that looked like it had been sent by express mail.

"Pardon my intrusion", the butler said with a bow. "As per your instructions, your highness, I have brought the delivery as soon as it arrived."

"It's here!"

One moment Mephisto was standing beside him, and in the next there was a lone white cape frozen in surprise before it fell limp to the floor. Letting human pretense fly, the demon darted for the package like a cobra. Simultaneously, Belial managed the reverse manoeuvre, dropping the package and reflexively diving to save the cape. He caught it in time, and caught his own exasperated expression before his master noticed it.

"It's here! Look!"

The wrapping was gone in one swift motion, as of a magician pulling the tablecloth off a table and leaving all cutleries standing. Left in Mephisto's hands, held out for scrutiny like the Holy Grail in all its glory, was a Betamax cassette that Shiro had to read twi- no, three ti-

"What the…?" He leaned all the way into the cover of the cassette and pulled his glasses down to peer over the rim when he read: "'Grendizer, Getter Robo G, Great Mazinger: Kessen! Daikaijuu'. For real? You found a film with _all three_ of those mecha crapbots?"

"Shush, you! I had it pre-ordered directly from Toei: this is the first tape of the first edition _ever_!"

Like his firstborn child, but much less noisy and in a much more manageable format; Mephisto hugged the cassette close to his chest and wiggled happily with a high-pitched, humming sound. Shiro could have sworn for a second that his hair curl turned heart-shaped. Belial stood at appropriate distance and watched, calculating behind a professional face whether he should stop his master from making an idiot of himself before a human, or if it was better to keep quiet and keep his job.

"Wanttowatchit?" he bubbled, even though he _knew_ Shiro had no interest in mecha anime…

…but he also knew just how effective that childishly happy face was for persuading him.

Come on. It was like the cutest little puppy ever dropping a ball at your feet and looking up at you with eyes shining brightly with expectation. Exactly how that comparison was applicable to a one-ninety-five tall demon was… unclear.

"Alright. _If_ I get my own popcorn bowl." Shiro emphasized the matter by crossing his arms. He really did want his own popcorn bowl.

"Why, certainly." He blinked in surprise. "What spawned that condition?"

"For one, you eat all of it when we share." Shiro unbuttoned his school uniform jacket with some difficulty for the splinted finger. "And two, you've got claws." He dropped a meaningful glance at the hands holding the videotape. There was no way Mephisto would dirty his gloves by keeping them on while eating popcorn. "Salt in scratch marks stings like a bitch." Ah, free at last from the garment that was far too warm for August. "Besides, I tend to lick my fingers. Can't soil the Princess' food with germs." Trap set…

A suggestive grin stretched Mephisto's lips to match his own.

"What makes you think I would object to sharing saliva, Shiro~?"

…and tripped.

"It's the same fingers I use to pick up horseshit." Ah~ Shiro could see him cringe all the way out in the tips of his ears. "Love that look on your face, Princess. Hey, Belial-san – could you put this away for me?"

"Certainly, bocchan", the butler replied, accepting Shiro's school uniform jacket and putting it atop Mephisto's cape. "Your popcorn will arrive in a few minutes, your highness. Anything else?"

"Bocchan...?" Apparently, it was the first time Mephisto heard it.

"I'm trying to take over your mansion, haven't you noticed?" he explained with a face of mild surprise. "First I make your familiars like me, then your servants, then I get my own key – before you know it, I'll be the new master of the house."

…he should _so_ remember to make that the stake next time they had the opportunity to bet. Make himself master of the house for a day, and Mephisto the servant. Oh, the possibilities…

"That is one thing I can guarantee will never happen."

"Never say never to Lady Chance, Sammy", Shiro pointed out with a cheeky grin.

"Of course, if you were to marry me, you could be mistress of the house."

"Get that stupid mecha thing rolling already."

* * *

No, Shiro had no interest in mecha. That didn't really matter at the moment. The mental tension the hearing had exerted had left him more fatigued than training did, and he could think of nothing more relaxing than to be lulled to sleep by explosions and shrieks of giant sea monsters.

_I would place my life in this young man's hands._

Shiro smiled sloppily and lowered his eyelids over the anime. Took a pinch of popcorns from the bowl resting on his belly. It would tip once he fell asleep in the beanbag. Spill all the popcorn. Give Mephisto something to complain about.

None of that mattered at the moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N**
> 
> **Gojira** is the Japanese name for Godzilla.
> 
>  **Grendizer, Getter Robo G, Great Mazinger: Kessen! Daikaijuu** \- yes, Toei made an anime film featuring all three of the biggest mecha heroes of that era. It aired in mid-July that year, so I suppose Mephisto must have paid quite an amount of money to get them to make that tape so shortly after. xD But~ if you're a hardcore otaku and a multimillionaire, I suppose you'd think it was worth it.


	54. Distance

Students were returning to True Cross Academy for the autumn semester – one by one like wandering pilgrims, or in flocks like migrating birds. Little uniform specks of black milling about on the ground. Shiro watched from one of the tower aqueducts as they were dropped off by private chauffeurs in big cars, or by taxi; or, in a few rare cases, arriving by humble tram. All swallowed up into the grand honeycomb complex of the school.

Last year, he'd been walking up the endless, tiring staircases as one of them. Last year, he'd silently complained that nothing had changed over summer.

…well, no need to complain this semester.

A breeze tugged at his clothes, licked around his ears with unaccustomed chill, and made the pennon cord whip against the flagpole atop the tower. Somewhere down there, Midori and Sen were walking hand in hand through the gates, back from their long stay in the village of the Futotsuki clan. Somewhere down there, Ryuuji was dropping his bags when he unloaded them from his dad's car, probably still giddy with joy from his tour with the professional musicians. Somewhere down there, they would meet up with Shizuku and exchange summer adventures with each other.

Shiro rolled his shoulders a couple of times with satisfying creaks, as if to shrug off unpleasant weight. He had thought of going to meet them, too… but his feet had thought different, and he'd ended up here instead. Watching from a distance.

Another unreliable word. Distance. Gaps in time and space, separating one thing from another. That's all it is. When you think too long about it, that's all it is. The world isn't made up of matter: it's made up of distances between particles. Distance between electron and proton creates atoms, distance between atoms create chemical elements, create gases, liquids, solids, matter, _life..._

Distance in time separates one life from another. One event from another. Allowing things physically separate to be chronologically contemporary.

There was a distance between him and his peers, one that went beyond four dimensions. There was a distance between him and himself; steadily growing more solid, more rigid, like the crystalline sharp decisions it enabled him to make in the field in split seconds.

Distance equated safety. It was the iron bars that kept him secure. It was the moat that kept his friends secure should his prison walls crumble. It was the inter-substance in all substance, and it was the cornerstone of the universe.

But what was it, truly? Distance? On the sub-microscopic level, where the tiniest building blocks of matter dwelled, what was there that kept them separate? Between one breath and another, what was it that flowed smoothly between the instants recognised as time and strung them together in continuity?

Was there nothingness…? Or was there something humans lacked the faculties to perceive? A _something_ between dimensions, wedged in like mortar to connect the building blocks yet keep them separate and create matter, time, and the very world humans called Assiah? Was there something that seeped into the cracks of creation, filling them with distance, and parted particle from particle with something that… was not particles? Was not physical, nor bound by time as physical matter was?

The thought lingered with him on the aqueduct, refusing to be carried away by the slight wind. No one had ever been able to explain how demons could take control of physical objects without having physical presence themselves. It wasn't possible to study such a phenomenon: guesses were all they had, and probably all they would ever have. Still... Assiah, the material world, was built on particles with distances between them. Distances filled with unknown nothingness that couldn't be called matter. Distances where... things not made of matter could seep through...?

* * *

It didn't take many days before the questioning began. It came like rain in early autumn: a wary dripping of hinted concern at first, which grew into a pelting downpour when his chilly replies didn't part the clouds of worry.

They all knew what had happened to Kasumi. They had been grief-struck, supportive, understanding... and he had accepted their soft words with downcast eyes and a wan, painted-on smile.

They knew he was targeted by demons, that he had to shield himself against them. Sure, they asked why. He told them he didn't know. They asked why he had to do it inside the Academy area – didn't the magical barriers keep demons out? He told them it didn't matter. That they should just let it go.

Friends are wonderful that way. They really want to help you. No matter what you have to say about that.

* * *

"Shiro-kun, this is no good. Come."

Of course, Midori was the one to break all unspoken rules of social conduct. Problems found were to be solved, not left alone because their bearers wanted it so. She marched him to the corner of the schoolyard that bore themes from the ancient Near East, with a round, tiered fountain in the middle of a small courtyard.

"Sit", she commanded him, and he sat down on the lowest tier. Then she vaulted up on top of the fountain, on the lion statues that fed it water, where she skipped from head to head around to the other side, and hopped out of view. She came around on the pavement seconds later, herding a nervously determined Ryuuji along.

"You are not well, Shiro-kun. Here, you are not well." Midori patted her chest urgently with a clawed hand as she sat down on her haunches next to him. "Please", her whole being poured into the request, "let us help you. Sorrow is good thing, not bad thing: _keeping_ sorrow is bad thing. It grows inside. It eats you." Her touch was tender, so tender; barely detectable fingertips gliding over his chest. "No need to put defence down, Shiro-kun. Only talk. Talk begins here", she pressed her hands onto his chest; warm, slender hands, "goes through heart", her hands met over his sternum, "and sets sorrow free." Fingers flowed up his throat, light as seagull wings skimming tranquil water. Midori was so close he could feel her breath against his chin, her golden eyes so near he could barely keep them in focus.

So close, yet the distance was there.

"We breathe in, and feed world to the heart", she murmured low against his lips, hands still cupping his face. "We breathe out, and feed heart to the world."

"Mmph…!" The pure shock of the kiss left him flabbergasted, at a complete loss for-

"Words are breath of the heart, Shiro-kun", she murmured, smiling, as she released him and hopped a step back. "Won't do to let your heart suffocate."

"Uh… okay…"

In her place, Ryuuji sat down next to him. Fidgeted with the keychain on his school satchel; caught himself doing it, and laid it gingerly to rest against the black fabric.

Shiro had plenty of time to notice that Ryuuji had grown over summer. Grown thinner, grown taller, grown… inwardly. The brown eyes were still shy and darted for cover when confronted, but his posture held a new confidence, and his voice held only traces of his former stuttering when he spoke:

"I figured you wouldn't, you know… come and talk by yourself. I remember you said sometime that you don't rely on others. So I asked Midori-chan if she could, uh, catch you." He glanced shamefacedly first at Shiro, then at Midori. The latter seemed quite happy with her catch. "Sorry about how… She only said she could get your attention, so I trusted her", he said with an embarrassed chuckle. "I just thought I should talk to you. It's not easy, this kind of thing." Ryuuji folded his hands together, stroking thoughtfully at the irregular callusing steel strings had left on his fingers. "When Agari-chan died, I didn't know what to do. It was like there was no light in the world anymore. I couldn't see any point in anything, and I wanted it all to disappear. I-"

"Ryuuji, you don't have to do this", Shiro murmured quietly.

"It's okay", he ensured, having no idea what images were currently flashing like lightning through Shiro's mind. "I mean, it still makes me sad when I think about it, but the pain dulls with time. It's not the same as you and Kasumi-chan, I know. I just want you to know that it does get… wouldn't say 'better', but… easier. But you need to stop thinking 'what if'. It's only going to drag you down. I had… God, I must've had thousands of 'what ifs'", he murmured, shadows of remembered pain nesting in the fine creases between his eyebrows. "Like, 'What if I had been there when the demons came through?' I used to dream I was, you know. I used to dream I saved her", he said with a faint smile, "even though I can't shoot or chant or use a sword."

"Look, I understand how you must have felt, but those are two different situations." There was a nausea building up in Shiro's gut, knotting him up and setting him on edge. He didn't want to think about Deep Keep. He wanted to think of _anything but_ Deep Keep.

"Different situations, yes", Ryuuji agreed sagely. "But you look like I felt."  
 _  
Blood. Pearls of blood tearing from a flowing red necklace. Bright as wet paint. You wouldn't think blood was that bright in real life._

"I hated myself, for not being there when she needed me", Ryuuji continued, murmuring to his knees. "I took the blame, like you do now. Because it had to be _somebody's_ fault, you know?" Oh, Shiro knew. He knew damn well whose fault it had been. and his barriers were cracking under the pressure in his chest. "Shizuku-san and Midori-chan helped me acknowledge that it wasn't my fault – that's what I mean by relying on people." He flashed a glance at Shiro; a thrown rope, an outstretched hand. It lasted a split second before he looked down at his folded hands again. "I was still sad, sure I was, but… It was a step on the way. Once I let go of 'what if', I could mourn. Just… truly mourn. And it was like a cleansing. I started to dream I wasn't saving her, just being with her. Holding her as s-she died. Saying goodbye." His voice broke; broke off in sharp edges that cut through Shiro's iron bars. "And when I could do that, I knew I w- I was starting to let it go."

"Ryuuji, stop." Shiro closed his eyes, focused, tried to keep the distance from the tightening feeling gathering in his chest. He was more angry than nauseous now, as if thrusting the memories away from himself would help. All he wanted was for Ryuuji to drop this whole thing. " _Why can't you just stop and let me forget?_ "

"I heard Kasumi-san forgave you", he heard Ryuuji say, voice muffled through a tissue paper. "I think that's… She's such a great person. A truly wonderful, great person."

" _That I almost killed._ " Lies weigh heavy on one's conscience? " _Try having truth on your conscience_ ", he spat at himself, but the weight – the nausea, the rage – didn't ease.

"It's important to forgive. I know it's hard, but you should forgive yourself, Shiro-san. It's the first step towards letting go and moving on."  
 _  
Black eyes became glass marbles. Blank, shiny marbles, rolling back in her skull and she fell, she fell and burning stars of warm blood speckled his face and  
_  
"…to know is that it's not your fault", the half-demon's voice drifted back into his ears. Shiro hadn't even noticed that he blacked out and blinked ferociously to try and keep himself together. "And you don't need to carry all this weight alone. We're here for you. That's what friends are for."  
 __  
Agari - Midori? - Agari fighting his friends at the Knight exam with blood on his hands blood flowing over Kasumi's hands and she stared with wide frightened eyes-

Distance, _distance_ , dammit…!  
 __  
-Midori's wide golden eyes reflecting his blade Agari's black marble eyes rolling back in her head  
  
Stop it, stop it, sto-

"Stop!" He'd said it out loud before he knew what he was doing.

Midori and Ryuuji both stared at him. Except it wasn't him. Their eyes reflected the image of a stranger standing by the glittering pool of water.

"Just stop this, guys." His voice was off, way off, but he couldn't just cry out 'stop!' and leave it at that. "I know you wanna help, but I can't do this. _Please_. Just let me deal with this on my own."

Ryuuji was still in a daze; but in Midori's sunlight eyes, a firestorm was building. And Shiro knew he'd said the wrong thing.

"You aren't dealing with it, Shiro-kun", she said grimly. "All day you sit, holding breath and holding in. I am only half, and I still smell rot in you."

He had thought it a few times before; how similar Midori and Mephisto could be. Not in personality, not at all, but… body language. The way they seemed to crackle with impish joy when they knew something he didn't, the way they moved so casually yet so sensually: and the way they could, in a split-secondflash, snap into a diametrically different mood.

"You're right. My bad." Tch, he sounded like a talking toy mechanically repeating its message. "I just find it difficult to…" As effective as stapling his tongue to his palate, dammit. "I never did talk much about feelings, okay? It wasn't exactly part of the family tradition."

"No excuses, Shiro-kun", Midori pursued relentlessly, hopping down from the fountain to poise herself in front of him, nailing his objections stuck in his brain with her glare. "You are not your family. You are stupid. You know problem, you know solution: you do nothing. So, you are stupid. We try to help you, and you say no." Her eyes were craggy rocks, her voice the coating of ice on their surface. "You don't treat friends well, Shiro."

Shiro knew what she was doing; knew it because he understood demons and how they worked. Midori was riling him up. She was trying to provoke him to blurt out what he couldn't bring himself to say under civilized conditions; trying to coax him into speaking of his problems.

"This isn't a good way of helping, you know", he said coolly, holding her hard eyes in his. "Provoking me will only make it harder for me to keep my guard up. If you really want to help, just leave me be."

"I won't!" she shouted, voice trembling and tears of frustration glimmering in her eyes. "I won't let you be stupid! Talk doesn't need you to let guard down! Only _talk_ , Shiro-ku-!"

"I don't wanna talk about this." He turned to leave, to end this conversation before it ended badly. …before it ended worse.

"You smell rot, Shiro! You smell guilt and regret and shame and is not, your, _fault!_ "

He heard Ryuuji's voice intermittently in the waves of Midori's rage, telling her to give him time. That he would talk when he was ready. That he probably had a lot to deal with.

Memories clotted in his throat, sealed his breath in as he paced briskly over the well-maintained lawns. All the while, his heart thrummed the rhythm of flight instinct in his ears. All the while, he sagged under the weight of truth as he put a greater distance between himself and… everything else.


	55. Overture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **This is a very special chapter.** It took me three months to compose. So, please take your time enjoying it. Tune in on the song I played when I wrote it, read it a couple of times, taste the rhythm and visualise the allegories, and prepare yourselves for the show.  
>  www.youtube.com/watch?v=gLgMvgOKUUM

Humanity has always held my keenest fascination  
this fickle breed of Want and Lust to good intentions wed;  
inherent slaves in servitude to gnosis and temptation  
all driven by this heedless Urge to know what lies ahead

It is this basic trinity of humankind's complexion  
these supple strings that operate your every action thence;  
decide the path ahead at every crossroad intersection  
and weave the blindfold tapestry called Choice and Consequence

It pleases me, I won't deny, to see those strings entangle  
and watch how careful choices snare your feet and tie your tongue;  
for by the time your path ahead has paved a dead end angle  
I wager from my fingertips I'll have you nicely strung

Though demons do tell lies, I'll tell you one thing that is certain;  
the greatest Lie since time began 's the one that you call Fate;  
the Truth it hides is unseen hands at work behind the curtain  
and human heartstrings played for symphonies of love and hate

Behold as I conduct my grand ensemble with a feather  
as silver words I smith to chain a certain white-haired stud;  
and when at last that curtain rises he shall wear my tether  
for plays are more exciting when the script is penned in blood

The stage is set for tragedy, the climax has been written  
the strings are all attached and Fate waits eagerly to play;  
our cast is tuned, by wilful choice, to love with hatred smitten  
and now that you are here we can begin without delay

You wish to know what lies ahead, if I am not mistaken?  
The thought of anguish and misfortune thrills my audience~?  
Won't do for me, a gentleman, to leave your hopes forsaken  
so take your seats, my dears; our second act shall soon commence

'tis time! I hear my cue: the clarion call of bar bells tolling  
with vows of one terrific show I bid you my farewell;  
I'd love to stay and watch, but there's a ball I must set rolling  
and see to it that curtain fall is borne on bedrock knell


	56. Tacet

It wasn't the lies. It wasn't the secrets. Hell, they hadn't even been secrets: his mom had known all along that his dad had another. But it wasn't the adultery, or the lies, or the promises broken before they were made. It was the silence.

Shiro remembered it in numbing detail. The silence that had permeated every word, every gesture, every act in the theatre that had been his family. The silence of things that were never said, but always known.

He had wondered, in his childish attempts to break the silence with rage, who they had been performing for. Who was there to applaud their flawlessly delivered lines, except the photographs on the walls? Who was there to judge their still-life interpretation of a model family? Who was there, except the actors: suffocated in painted masks, bent broken in roles learnt by heart.

He'd been a "problem child": the kind who always got in trouble and fights. How unfortunate, relatives had said. Devoted parents and good income, and still he turned out like that. Hopefully he'd grow out of it. Boys will be boys, you know?

And no matter how he fought, or screamed, or misbehaved, nothing could break the silence. Nothing was allowed to disturb the performance. The dollhouse walls stood firm, the play went on, and on, and on, and…

Then it ended. Without applause, without encore, silence reigned supreme. The stage was sold to cover debt, and all inventories and decor that no longer filled a purpose were auctioned out. And he was alone. A problem child that was never silent, as little problematic children ought to be.

A lone cardboard box of personal belongings had been left in storage. Nobody knew what to do with it. No one wanted such things: crayon drawings, a tattered baseball glove, photographs of a model family – a silent audience, leaving when the show was over.

The problem child had been left in storage. Nobody knew what to do with him. No one wanted such things.

* * *

He had inherited various things from his parents: children tend to do that. His dad's hair. His mom's hands. His dad's winning smile.

His mom's drive to do everything he could for the people that mattered.

His dad's inability to sort out problems before they piled up high and buried him.

And though he'd fought, and screamed, and resisted, the silence had found him and forced its inheritance on him.


	57. Crescendo

He had plenty of spare time, now that he had technically graduated from high school. Special schedule ate that up quick enough, though. Attending classes with the senior exorcist students. Writing extra assignments. Helping Moriyama Mayu with her garden and receiving private tutoring in pharmacognosy.

Model student. Two words that left a bitter ring of irony in his ears.

August shone brightly on the white facades of the campus buildings. It was lunchtime, but most students chose to linger in the corridors for the benefit of air conditioning. Shiro was already headed to the Eastern library to do some in-depth reading on the migrating patterns of water demons. Kohu-sensei had assigned him another extra paper to work on. He needed to work on his academic writing, she said, because he would be required to write candidate and master papers in later years: "academic writing" meaning using words that nobody except Mephisto knew, as long and confusing sentences as possible, passive voice preferably, and under _no_ circumstances was any average human being supposed to understand a shit of-

"Shiro! Shiro!" Shizuku's voice dangled on the last thread of his breath. He must've run quite some distance; otherwise he had the same unending stamina Kasumi had. "Shi-haah bloody hell ye're a hard one ta haah track down…"

There was something… off… For while Shizuku panted and sweated, as you'd expect from one who comes running like a madman on a warm day, his face was a disturbingly pale shade of the usual tan.

"What's the hurry?" He stopped on the slope rising up to the library building, waiting for Shizuku to catch up and catch his breath.

"Ye haven't heard? Haah no, of course not. The Kita shit-head's spreading word that ye're Satan's host vessel."

"He's what…?" Shiro felt his lips form the words, but couldn't hear if he said them or not. He could see Shizuku's chest heave beneath the damp shirt, but heard no breath wheeze from his mouth.

Then sound came rushing back in. Like water through an opened dam, choking him with nausea.

"'E's saying ye're Satan's vessel in Assiah", Shizuku repeated while wiping sweat from his brow. "Claims haah claims 'e heard it from grandparents working at 'eadquarters, or somethin'."

Yes, Kita had grandparents in the Vatican… In the Council… In the _archives_ … Oh no, _no_ …

Shiro could feel it creaking, the world around him; breaking apart, like a ship groaning in full storm.

"Oi, d'ya hear me? Shiro-san?"

When he snapped back, Shizuku was watching him like one would watch a dog that might-or-might-not have rabies. Watchfully. Tensely. Suspecting, but hoping he was wrong.

" _What do I do now…?_ "

His reactions had already betrayed him. And even if he denied the claim, there would be others who asked. And sooner or later, when enough people had heard and enough people asked, the truth would come out. All because of bloody Yaonaru Kita.

"Where is Kita?" Shiro heard himself ask.

Shizuku had expected… What had he expected? Not those words, that was for sure. It took him an extra moment to replay the question. Enough time for residual doubt to evaporate.

"Ye mean…?" His eyebrows drew together, as if he still couldn't believe, still couldn't be sure unless he heard it out loud. "It's-?"

"It's true."

Shiro had been to the river once, with his mom and dad. Early spring, when the leaves were still sleeping in their buds. His dad had hoisted him up to sit on his shoulders, so he could see the vast sheet of ice that blanketed the water. Winter had begun loosening its grasp on Japan, and so the ice had begun to reluctantly release the river from its hibernation in the white cocoon. All the way up on the riverbanks, they could hear its birthing pain: gunshot cracks and agonised groans as ice broke, collided, ground into and up on top of each other. Like a herd of slow, panicked cattle struggling for their lives in the pitch-black water.

He'd watched, breath held, as nature demonstrated her raw power over the elements. It was the same awe-inspiring force that streaked his skin with goose bumps during thunderstorms. Mesmerising. Terrifying.

It broke. It broke, like one massive sheet of ice: shattered the façade covering the cold, dark truth. The silence. The world. All of it… shattered.

"It's true", Shiro heard himself say. Terrified. Mesmerised. Not quite believing that the silence was finally broken. "I'm a compatible host: that's all there's to it. I'm still just a regular guy aside that. Where did you last see Kita?"

If he could find Kita, he could find the source. Stem the leak. Damage control. Maybe, _maybe_ he could save something in this shipwreck of spilling secrets.

"What are…? Ye... How can…?"

Fractured questions and disbelief were swirling over Shizuku's features, dropping assorted words onto his tongue; a hurricane sweeping through his mind and tearing up what he had thought he knew. And in the eye of the storm, in the deadly calm in the midst of chaos, one word anchored in his thoughts with hostile certainty:

"Pheles", he hissed, eyes darkening with thunder clouds. "What did he do te you?"

"He has nothing to do with this", Shiro replied coolly, not wanting to ignite Shizuku's temper. "He-"

"Don't ya dare protect his ass, Shiro", Shizuku snarled through bared teeth, stabbing a finger harshly at him. "Ye know damn well no one can host Satan so don't go fuckin' lyin' ta me. This 'compatibility' thing stinks o' demon magic."

"You can't 'make' a human compatible with Satan", he pushed, trying to appeal to reason although Shizuku was probably agitated far beyond that point. "No one can do that. I had host potential from birth, and-"

"An' when Pheles noticed that 'e wound you round 'is little finger ta make the most of it?!" the pilgrim snarled viciously. "Do ya hear ye'se-"

"He noticed when I started attracting demons, and ran tests to figure out why", Shiro snapped coldly. "It turns out I developed my potential perfectly well on my own as the stupid fuck I am. Mephisto did nothing."

Shizuku looked like he was about to shout back, or punch him, when the black fury in his eyes faded… and became something infinitely worse.

"When ye started attracting demons…?" he repeated. Slow and steady. A rising river that will eventually sweep away everything it touches: and there's nothing one can do to stop it.

" _No… shit, no…_ "

"Ye started attracting demons in April. No, in February. When ye were found on that balcony." Ice. Tendrils of frosty lace eating into Shizuku where he stood, fists clenched and knuckles white. "How long did ya know?" You could see him bristle visibly; see the low, ominous tone in his voice vibrate in every hair. "How long did ya know this without telling us? Without telling my _sister_?" Any moment now, his vocal cords would become so tense they snapped. "Or you were gonna wait an' let Satan tell her when he took yer-"

"I've known since April", he cut off. Not that he wanted to speak. But he couldn't bear to listen. "I didn't ask for this shit, and I never meant to do anything to Kasumi. You have to realise that, Shizuku: I never _intended_ to do any har-"

"Ye don't get ta fuckin' call her by name!" Shizuku shoved him hard enough in the chest that Shiro staggered backwards on the path. "What bloody _intention_?! What the fuck did ya _think_ would 'appen?! Ye shouldn't 'a gone near her at all!" Another shove, with all of his weight behind it.

"I made a _mistake_." He grasped for Shizuku's wrists, bracing himself against the thrust. "A huge bloody mistake, but I never-"

"Lemme tell ya what fuckin' _mistake_ ye made, ya little shit", he hissed, black eyes boring into Shiro as he pressed forward, arms trembling with rage and strain in the tight grip. "Ya bit my sister's face off, all because ya think with yer dick instead o' yer head!" Shizuku tore free and barrelled into him, using his advantage in weight and height to knock him down on the stone pavement.

Fists, knees, elbows – Shiro couldn't tell what was what as they grappled for any extremity they could catch. Besides, he had to be careful not to be too rough on Shizuku. Easier said than done.

"Get a hold of yourself dammit!" Finally. Shiro was pinned down on his back, but he managed to lock the pilgrim's wrists and hold him fairly still. "I'm sorry – more sorry than you can ever imagine! What else do you want me to say?!"

Nothing. There was nothing he _could_ say: he knew that the split second he looked up at Shizuku, before the latter's forehead came down hard on the bridge of his nose.

Feelings aren't good at thinking. Feelings like fear, and love. And betrayal.

Shizuku had lost two sisters to demons. Because of a friend, he'd almost lost the third.

Shiro's glasses wouldn't budge thanks to their magic, but dug hard into his nose bone. He wrenched Shizuku off of himself, groaning and feeling a choking hotness fill his nostrils. Staggering to his feet, he wiped the worst away with the back of his hand, spitting the rest on the walkway. Shizuku braced himself to get up, but his arm wouldn't support him and he flopped back down on the ground in a hailstorm of hissing curses.

Screw damage control. Screw stemming leaks. The ship was sinking, and there wasn't a fucking thing he could do about it.

"I call you forth to tell the just from the corrupted, to judge and exact judgement; to hunt the guilty down from the domes of the sky to the pits of the underworld." The summoning circle heated in his shirt pocket, and the smell of burnt brimstone mingled with the blood in his nostrils. "Lead me to Yaonaru Kita.

The great white hound looked at him, bared its teeth at him, and he was about to give the command again when he realised it wasn't going to contest him.

The damn thing was laughing; a hoarse, racking sound accompanied by gushes of sparks over the lolling tongue. Then it turned and took off down the slope.

* * *

Rage is often likened to fire. A rabid, reinless heat that explodes and destroys anything it touches. It devours mind, reason, pain; friend, enemy… Fire burns everything.

And if it can't explode, it will implode. Behind the iron bars of self-control, Shiro's rage imploded in a cold, searing flash. Cold rage burns reason, not mind. It burns the restraints off cruelty and blackens its edges with hatred, flames converging and concentrating with deadly precision wherever the mind wishes it.

Shiro's mind was set on finding Yaonaru Kita.

* * *

He found the hellhound in one of the boys' dorms. It paced restlessly outside the showers on the third floor, grunting and snorting at the door. There was a ward painted on the wood – probably one on the inside, too. The handle turned without gripping the latch when Shiro tried it.

Fucking rat.

"Not man enough to face the people you badmouth, Kita?" he spoke loudly to the door. Waited. Nothing. "I'm dismissing my familiar. Either you come out, or I come in."

Still nothing. The miasma had almost dissipated after the hellhound's leave, and no sound was heard from the shower room.

" _Fine._ "

Shiro backed a step and braced himself before kicking sideways at the door, just below the lock.

" _I'll get you._ "

He kicked again, and heard the wooden frame groan.

" _I'll fucking get you._ "

Third kick; the door burst through the frame in a cascade of splinters. He was greeted by rows of metal lockers, kept company by latch-work baskets, a couple of left-behind bottles of shampoo. Shiro went in, threw the glass doors apart with a jarring crash and marched into the tiled bathing area beyond. A row of stools and showers lined the long wall, and in the opposite corner was a wooden dais with a traditional tub lowered into it.

Shiro fell into tunnel vision when he spotted Kita next to the dais. He would be "Satan's vessel" to the whole school, and it was that little prick's fault. He would lose Shizuku and he would lose Kasumi, and it was that _blabbering_ asshole's fault…!

Distance melted away under his feet. Kita came closer, closer; unmoving. Just stood there, waiting for it. On some primal level, Shiro had hoped that he would run. Beg. Whimper. _Suffer_.

Wouldn't be too difficult to fix. All he had to do was grab his fucking face and slam his head into the wall. So easy. Just like cutting the head off that nukekubi. Everything is so easy when emotion can't impede the mind. And Kita would pay. He would fucking pay for ruining peoples' lives.

_Can't do that._

Blessed be the shackles of focus and restraint, otherwise he might have been the Order's lab rat already.

"That meeting was closed and classified." Shiro heard his voice ricochet against the bathroom walls, barely recognisable in his own ears. "And still you put your grandparents in some deep fucking shit just so you could get to me, you little asshole."

"To you?" Kita drawled sarcastically. "I told you, I couldn't care less about you. You were given a fair warning – and still here you are, faithful as a dog at Pheles' feet." Warning? What, did he mean that chat they had when Shiro shoved him into a wall after Tamer exams? "As things stand, we can't bring down Pheles; but we can throw a spanner in the works and disable his tools." Kita mustered a stiff toss of his head to get the fringe out of his eyes. "Nothing personal, Fujimoto. We all make sacrifices from time to time: think of yourself as collateral damage."

"I'll show you fucking collateral damage", he snapped, grabbing hold of Kita's shirt and pressing his lower arm against his throat. "For leaking classified information from closed hearings, perhaps?" Shiro hissed, centimetres from his face. It would be so easy, so _delightfully_ easy to beat him into minced meat, right here and now… "Maybe the Order would look the other way, even?"

This close, Kita's skin was waxen; his pupils were reduced to quivering pinheads, his larynx bobbed frantically beneath Shiro's arm. The guy was scared shitless.

"Don't be stupid", he snorted cockily: a complete contradiction to his body's signals. One that made Shiro's scowl deepen with confusion. "I wouldn't spread information I had no right to. I knew you were Satan's chosen since Pheles informed Headquarters four months ago. No need to worry about my grandparents, for that matter: the contents of _that_ report weren't as strictly classified."

What? Just… what?

"You knew all this time, and _now_ you…?"

"It wasn't until now I learnt of your obscure involvement in the barrier failure last spring." A twitchy smirk ghosted Kita's features. "My condolences, Fujimoto, but you're simply too useful to Pheles to be allowed to walk free."

No. No, no, no, this didn't add up. This did _not_ add up. Kita acting this cocky, when he was close to practically pissing himself?

"How about you stop lying to my face and tell me what's really going on?" he said grimly, and increased the pressure against Kita's throat to make the threat more tangible. To buy time. " _He's wincing like he expected me to sock him every time I move. Yet he keeps pushing? The fuck is this?_ "

"Really, are you that dense?" Big words, but the voice speaking them was faltering. "I'm damaging your reputation to ensure Pheles can't strengthen his hold on the Order through you. Just a precaution. Someone like you doesn't belong in the Order in the first place."

What was Kita doing? This wasn't some spur-of-the-moment thing: he'd known since April. He'd had time to paint wards and plan his retreat.

Why this spot? Far from the most advantageous – a dead end with no possibility of hiding or holding one's ground.

Why taunt when he was afraid of getting beaten up? It made no sense. If he was that afraid of getting torn a new one, all he'd have to do was hide behind Akihiro, his brother – especially if the whole Yaonaru family was informed of-

Steps. Heavy steps over tiled floor. Shiro had barely turned his head to identify the newcomer when he was yanked away from Kita and…

Yaonaru Akihiro, speak of the devil: and the tall Dragoon landed a punch square in Kita's temple. The teenager stumbled, leaning heavily onto the wooden dais for support and groaning pitifully with one hand clamping his head.

"Don't you dare touch my brother!"

Shiro had _no_ idea what was going on, except that Akihiro had whirled back around and whacked him hard across the face with the back of his fist. Tiny white dots of light crackled in his vision, and in his mouth the taste of salt and metal bled onto his tongue.

"People should know the truth!"

"What the hell are you doing?!" Shiro snapped, blocking the next swing. He tried to hold Akihiro still, but the senior tore the shirtsleeve out of his grip – and turned around to ram his knee hard into Kita's side.

"Someone like you doesn't belong in the Order of the True Cross", Akihiro snarled, and lunged all out at him.

And then Shiro understood.

Spanners in the works. Collateral damage. They were going to disable Mephisto's 'tool', and Kita was the sacrifice that would get him sent to the Order's research laboratories: all they had to do was show how badly "Shiro" had beaten him up.

"You piece of _shit_ …!"

They wanted him to beat them up? Fine. He was _more than willing_ to comply.

It wouldn't make any difference anyway. They were two against one – two members of a respected lineage family against one orphan with a criminal past, and there was all the motive in the world to suggest he had attacked them. Guess whose story the Court would believe?

* * *

Shiro heard the sound of steps and someone shouting his name, faintly filtering through the grunts of fighting and the angry heartbeat thumping red shadows in his vision.

" _I'm not fucking done with you yet!_ "

He felt arms darting in under his own from behind, locking them and pulling him away from Akihiro.

" _I'm not fucking done with you, you shit-head!_ "

Shiro threw his arms back over his shoulders, grabbed hold of his captor's clothes, and hurled him forward with-

Him?

Midori sailed through the air with a shocked gasp, but regained her control in a graceful twist that landed her in crouching position on the wall, before gravity brought her soundlessly back down on the floor tiles. And the way she looked at him…

Not at him

A stranger.

A stranger who did things humans couldn't do.

Reality flooded back in with brutal awareness and too sharp details. He wasn't Shiro to her anymore. Would never be Shiro to her again. Her wide eyes said it all, those golden eyes that used to be filled with sunshine…

He turned away. He'd rather die, right here and now, than see that expression on Midori's face.

That was when he saw Shizuku. Sen. Ryuuji. They were all there, they all…

" _They all saw…?_ "

Yes. They had all seen it. They had all come rushing after Midori, and they had all seen her trying to call him back to his senses. Eyes empty with disbelief, frozen where they stood in the shower room foyer.

He would never be Shiro to them again.

And Silence reigned supreme.

 _Run_. The impulse had his body moving before it reached his brain. Run. The ice was shattering under his feet, and if he didn't run he would drown in the cold, black river. The ship was sinking, and all he could do…

Abandon it.

He elbowed past Sen, out the glass doors, fumbling in his pocket-

" _Hope to hell the lock didn't break._ "

-fumbling for the key. The heavy, gilded key that only had one matching brother.

He slammed the door shut and shoved it into the lock, begging, _praying_ that it would-

"Shiro!"

The grandiose foyer of Faust Mansion spread in the wrecked doorframe.

"Shi-!"

The door slammed shut behind him… and all was silent.


	58. Diminuendo

"Good afternoon, Bocchan. Would you-?"

"Just leave me alone."

Shiro dismissed the demon housemaid in stride, thinking only of finding someplace where he could sit down and…

And what? Think? About time he did some of that – way too fucking late, though.

He had already slumped down on his favourite couch in the manga library before he noticed his lip was bleeding. His nose ached, his hands were sore, and he would probably have a bruise blooming over-

…he plucked off his glasses as gently as he could: the frame was kinked, but not broken. The following minutes he spent directing all of his attention to bending it back into shape. Not thinking about his lip. Not thinking about his eye. Not thinking. Not thinking as long as he could avoid it.

Fuck it all. Just… Fuck it all.

Shouldn't have lost it like that. Couldn't _afford_ losing it like that, dammit…

Shouldn't have panicked. Shouldn't have run.

" _They saw me fucking run to Faust Mansion…_ " He groaned, putting his glasses back on. He let his hands remain where they were, cupping them over the lenses to cover his vision.

Good job – bloody good job. Why couldn't he just stop and _think_? Was that too much to ask of a nineteen-year-old, that he would fucking _think_ before he acted?

He should go and find them, right now; go back and apologise and explain…

Explain what? That he could throw people and vending machines like sticks, but Mephisto had absolutely nothing to do with that? That he was an irresponsible piece of shit who risked their lives and limbs just by being near them? Apologise for things that couldn't be forgiven and get himself another headbutt from Shizuku?

Tch, words. The ones you really need never exist.

There were no words to explain this. No words that could explain how sorry he was, how much he regretted what he'd done; no words that could set the wrongs right.

That's why he'd panicked.

That's why he'd run.

Like his dad. Abandoning ship when everything was too tangled up to sort out, when there were no words to mend the cracks and no way of repairing what was broken; a pathetic excuse for a man who couldn't make-

"How the fuck do I make this right…?!" he snarled, but it came out as nothing more than a strangled groan.

And the Order. Shit, _the Order_.

He sank deeper in the couch, sank and sank into the spiralling hell until his breath was nothing but shallow gasps. They would detain him now, surely. Forget about school, forget about friends: he'd be locked up indefinitely, with tubes and tests and syringes to dissect him for information. They wouldn't find any explanation, and they'd keep searching, and he'd never be let out, never-

" _I wasn't possessed, they'll only take me if I'm possessed._ " He mouthed the words to himself like a silent prayer, repeating them over and over, trying to make his breathing fall into the rhythm.

They could still declare him too volatile to be in school. Could, and would. Forget about becoming an exorcist – perfect marks didn't count for shit if Beaumonde could have a say.  
__  
Someone like you doesn't belong in the Order of the True Cross.  
  
Fuck – fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck…_! There was no making this right, no returning to how things had been; nothing he could say or do that would change anything; nothing that…

Nothing…?

Not quite true.

If he really wanted to make amends, he could. If he really _wanted_ to escape a laboratory cell, he could. He could still be in the Order, still become an exorcist: all he had to do... was pay for it.

Kasumi would never forgive him. After all he'd done to her already, this one thing was-

Tch, as if it would matter! As if it would matter if he made another wrong to set the first one right! Shizuku would never allow him near his sister again anyway – hell, Kasumi might feel the same once she learnt the truth! How sycophantic wouldn't he look if he did this _now_?! Like he was trying to fucking _bribe_ them to forgive him! As if he wasn't doing it for _her_ but for his own _damn_ sake!

Was he, then? Was he doing it for her? Was he _truly_ doing it for her…?

" _For both of us_ ", he conceded, not without tasting the bitterness of the confession.

He could have done it before. She hadn't wanted him to, but he could have. If he broke his promise now, it was because he feared for his own skin. Not hers.  
_  
Coward._

* * *

He didn't know how long he sat on that couch. His mind spun haunted circles between hope and despair, honourable destruction or cowardly redemption.

He could make things right: that was the milestone his thoughts kept returning to, each turn they traced the same, familiar tracks. He could make things right: save his own skin, and set right the wrongs he'd made against others. He _could_.

 _There's many things people_ can _do, but that doesn't mean they_ should _do 'em._

Could, should - too late for all that. He _would_ do it.

Would that change anything?

No. No, it wouldn't. It made things right, but it didn't make them undone.

Still, it was the best he could do. The _only_ thing he could do. There was no salvaging the shipwreck his life had turned into, but he could make sure that he was the only one who paid for the mistakes. Be a better man than his dad had been. They might not forgive him, but… This way, at least he could forgive himself.

After all, it's in human nature to wish for miracles when desperate.


	59. Chess: Latvian gambit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A **Latvian Gambit** , as the chapter is named after, is a chess move made by Black. Now, what's interesting about it is not the actual move, but what kind of move it is, as summarised in this quote:
> 
>  
> 
> **"What is required to play the Latvian Gambit with any degree of success is a sharp eye for tactics and a mental attitude of total contempt for whatever theory has to say about it."**
> 
>  
> 
> The Latvian Gambit is a daredevil move, and it takes skill and gut feeling to pull it off.

It was unclear exactly how Faust Mansion connected with Mephisto's office in the Academy; _why_ was obvious, considering how much he seemed to dislike travelling like common humans, but _how_ … Well, transition between the two was possible, at least. With the right key and the right… patience. Shiro knew well how long office hours lasted, and how long after that point Mephisto could be expected to stay in his office to finish the day's paperwork. By using this knowledge in junction with much exploration of the mansion, he arrived in the principal's office when Mephisto was the only one present.

"I'll do it."

Mephisto looked up from his papers with that expression that said he would consider becoming curious, depending on what next came out of the speaker's mouth.

"I'll do it", Shiro repeated in level tones as he strode solemnly past the set of Baroque furniture. "I'll go to Rome and get you your Cardinal."

A lone eyebrow quirked upwards, but that was the sole change on the principal's features.

"If the offer still stands?" Shiro added, coming to a stop before the desk that boasted its weight in solid wood.

"As I recall, you preferred to watch the game from the sidelines?"

"I do, but you don't always get to pick what you prefer", he replied wryly. "Still interested in a single-move checkmate?"

"Always the wrong questions, Shiro", Mephisto drawled, leaving ample room for the smug response that would come. He wiped his reservoir pen clean and corked it. Placed it back into etui and put it aside, aligned perfectly parallel with the chessboard. "The only relevant one being, 'what do you ask in return?'" Mephisto braided his fingers together on the desk and finally raised his eyes to meet his gaze.

"I want Kasumi's face returned to what it was."

He didn't want that kind of scrutiny right now. Every second Mephisto spent on measuring him, he expected the old goat to turn the offer down. Or say that it wasn't balanced; that somehow seemed to be vital for forming contracts. Equal value. Can't pay for less than you get – and conversely, it appeared demons couldn't charge for more than they sold.

"Lovers give each other offerings for three reasons", Mephisto spoke distantly, still holding Shiro contemplatively with his eyes. "As tokens of affection, as pleas for forgiveness, or as parting gifts." His head tilted sideways, the way Midori's did when she was trying to make sense of something that she almost-but-not-quite grasped. "You aren't asking her to forgive you", he murmured to himself. "You're enamoured with her. And you're saying goodbye." The demon heaved a pleasant sigh, bringing with it a sappy smile that Shiro recognised from evenings when they watched some particularly cheesy anime. "And they say the days of chivalry are past? Truly, a knight the Order will be able to pride itself on. A deal it is."

A deal it was. The desk was soon swept clear of papers, and covered by a large, unmarked sheet of parchment summoned by Mephisto.

" _Parting gift… Yeah, something like that. I'm sorry, Kasumi. Seems I'll be playing chess after all_ ", he thought grimly, eyes falling on the glossy chessboard. If he were useful there, Mephisto would keep him in play. He would ensure that the Order didn't detain him. It was the best option out of several bad.

There was only one piece moved on the board: a black pawn. One piece that would ensure no others had to be… sacri… ficed…?

_we all make sacrifices from time to time_

Kita's voice echoed in the back of his head; overlapped by another voice from long ago, in this very office.

_in chess there is always sacrifices_

Sacrifices were part of the game. Part of the strategy. Part of luring your opponent into the trap. As Mephisto tugged the fingers of his glove to remove it, Shiro traced the pattern of skilful strategy with dead heartbeat.

He couldn't see them. The strings. Humans rarely can see such things: see the strings that connect one thing to another, beneath the surface layers of the world. But, even if you can't see them… sometimes… you can see the pattern they weave.

Pinky…  
_  
When he was going to date Kasumi, Mephisto had offered him succubi_

Ring finger…  
_  
When he'd promised to spend the day with Kasumi and Shizuku, he'd almost missed it because of the hangover from celebrating his exam with Mephisto; before exam results were officially announced_

Middle finger…  
_  
When he'd taken Kasumi to the cinema, Mephisto had bought up all the tickets_

Forefinger…  
_  
When Kasumi and Shizuku had dropped by for a surprise-visit, Mephisto had been introducing him to the Misses in the beauty pageant_

Thumb…  
_  
Kasumi had forgiven him for the attack, made him promise not to sign any contract… and somehow Kita's grandparents had found out that he had been involved in the Deep Keep incident_

The pattern was there. Consistent as clockwork. And though Shiro couldn't see them, he felt them: soft, soft strings, gently snaring his limbs into submission and binding his tongue with secrets that kept others from interfering as the spider slowly wove its web around him.

"You… No…"

At the sound, Mephisto looked up at him, wearing that same face of naïve ignorance he pulled on the Order during hearings. The face he had used for pledging innocence with the blood of ninety-two orphans on his hands.

No, it couldn't be… It _couldn't_ …

"You wanted this…" he whispered, barely audible above the numb disbelief echoing inside him. "You wanted me to- You tried to make me…"  
_  
The right to move is yours alone_ – how _noble_ that had sounded. How _magnanimous_ of the demon to let his game piece leave the board. How _generous_ to offer him the illusion of choice when he dangled like a fucking puppet at the end of his strings…!

"You son of a _bitch_ …!"

Fuck the games, fuck the rules: Shiro pulled him out of his chair by the cravat, forced him to bend forward and practically bow over the desk to meet him face to face. And the demon grinned – fucking _grinned_ – at the scorching fury that burnt in his veins. As if this was the best part of it all.

"You're gonna tell me one thing", he snarled through his teeth, "and you're gonna tell me the truth. Did you send the demon that possessed me when I attacked Kasumi?"

Because if he did; if he risked her fucking _life_ for his plans…

_in chess there is always sacrifices_

…then Shiro would walk up to the Grigori and tell them who their Honorary Knight was, and what he had done. And that would be the end for both of them.

"I have done no such thing", the demon smiled sweetly.

Lies. He'd told lies before, he would do it again. Stone cold, Shiro pierced the green eyes with his own, quietly demanding the truth.

"You wish it were my doing, do you? Would ease your own guilt if it were me, hm?" he suggested agreeably, idly meeting the glares with unwavering confidence. "It's such a bad habit you humans have, blaming your faults on demons."

Something snapped. Cold flames burned through his restraint once more and set loose a mind capable of anything; next thing Shiro knew, something wet and warm was trickling down his fingers. The switchblade was in his hand, and its tip was buried in the soft flesh under Mephisto's chin.

"I have many things I could blame you for", he spoke coldly, "and the Vatican would be eager to hear them."

He could go further. No problem at all. In this state of mind, he could do anything. Mephisto was held fast, bowed down, bleeding… And no matter how much Shiro was capable of, he could do nothing against the demon that was held fast, bowed down, bleeding… and _smiling_.

"Such spirit~" Heavy eyelids lowered pleasantly, centimetres from Shiro's face. "I thought you would have learnt, from the incident with miss Honda, not to let emotion obstruct your judgement, Shiro…?"

Playing. The bastard was still playing with him, _toying_ with him…!  
_  
As he had done all along._

Inside Shiro… something broke.

Something he'd never felt until it impaled him on the shards of shattered illusions.

The world teetered before his eyes, suddenly black and white in the garish light of his stupidity. He had trusted Mephisto. Against all reason and common sense he had trusted him, teased him, defended him - and Mephisto had been playing him the whole time. Herding him towards this moment, this parchment, this contract.

A tool.

One that Kita had willingly handed to the demon, not knowing where the information about the Deep Keep incident came from.

Walk away. That was his first impulse: walk away, and deny Mephisto the tool he wanted. Walk off, slam the door behind him and… And what? Let Mephis- Let Samael play him for another round of cat and mouse? Let him drag more innocent bystanders into his mad games?

_know your enemy, and you can predict his actions_

He knew Samael: fool or not, he knew how that demon's mind worked. And Samael knew him.

_predict your enemy's actions, and you can lead him wherever you like_

He knew there was only one way of making him stop: Samael knew that, too.

_to the true master, the enemy is but another game piece to be played_

"I'll sign your contract", he hissed, letting go of the demon's cravat with a harsh shove. "And next time you feel like playing _games_ , you play with the ones who chose to be on the board."

No more sacrifices. No more collateral damage. No more foolish illusions.  
_  
Bastard._

"The mettle of one who commands hellhounds." His tone seemed to say 'good dog' as he seated himself again. He readjusted the cravat delicately and produced a cerise handkerchief to wipe blood from his throat. "No need to involve others now that all the pieces are assembled, hm?" He offered the handkerchief to Shiro with an easy smile; Shiro ignored it, and wiped his knife and fingers on his own shirtsleeve. Unperturbed, the demon tossed the cloth over his shoulder for the wastebasket to catch. "First things first~ I'm assuming you want to read the contract and make sure it's to your satisfaction before you sign?"

Not waiting for a reply, he tugged off his other glove and pulled up the tailcoat sleeve a few centimetres. One sharp, purple claw cut into his wrist, and a single red drop fell onto the parchment: it scattered, like ink dripped into water, and wove its smoky tendrils out over the surface to inscribe what he promised to do.

Shiro flipped the parchment around unceremoniously. There could be catches hidden in any nook of a strange or non-exclusive phrasing… He sifted the words through, turned them over and inside out, but found nothing suspicious. All was in place, nothing noteworthy.

"I want to make an addendum", Shiro declared. Following the cue of Samael's cocked head, he spoke again: "Your part of the deal won't come into effect until I'm out of here. Until I leave Japan."

That way, Kasumi wouldn't know he had broken his promise until he was gone.  
_  
Coward._

That way, she might curse him to hell and forget about him.

"Certainly." With a sigh eerily reminiscent of disembodied voices, the blood seeped another smoky line of kanji into the parchment. "Will that be all…?"

He sounded like a bloody shop assistant over the counter.

Wordlessly, Shiro rolled a sleeve, same as he had been instructed to do one year and four days earlier, in this very room. He poised the tip of his knife over a pale blue vein, and blood swirled into words his end of the deal. Just like one year and four days ago.

One year…

He watched Samael hum to himself in an unconcerned fashion as he read through the document in its entirety. No regret. No emotion played over his features, not even gloat.

As if one year had meant nothing.

"Well, then." The blood flashed blue, the colour of burning sulphur; and when the light died down, their agreement was branded into the paper. "All set and done~" At two rapid claps from Samael's hands, the parchment rolled into a scroll and bound itself together with a pink, polka-dotted ribbon, before it disappeared in a burst of pink smoke.

"It's the same as last time, I guess?" Shiro rolled the sleeve back down, not bothering if the fabric stuck in the bleeding cut. "If I break the contract or fail to complete it, you'll have my soul."

"No need to look so grim about it: I want you to succeed, Shiro~" Samael threaded his gloves back on, taking care that the seams all aligned impeccably on the sides of his bony fingers. "Nothing is impossible with the right mind and the right means. The mind you have; and the means", he smirked, "I will provide. So! Without further ado, I will explain to you how to catch the fox in his own den."

There was a plan.

Of course.

Hadn't there been, all along?

* * *

…Shiro wouldn't _admit_ that he was amazed, but… Damn. _Damn._

He had pictured a stab in the back, a dagger in the shadows – the kind of manoeuvre Tanzi had tried to pull, but smarter. In retrospect, he didn't know what he had been thinking. Stealth? From one who dressed in pink silk stockings and billowing opera capes? Samael's soiled pride demanded Revenge, glorious such, and it would march in through the front gate to obtain it – red carpet, spotlight and all.

"There's no way you can kill Tanzi under those circumstances", he murmured, going over the plan in his head in search of weaknesses and question marks. "You weren't going to, either, if I remember correctly. What are you gonna do once you have him?"

He forced himself to look at Samael when he spoke, hoping to see… difference. A change in the way he sat, the way he looked at him; _anything_ that could set him apart from the Mephisto he had called friend, hoping it would be… easier? Was betrayal ever easy?

"I'm going to offer him a deal", the demon replied.

There was no malice in that statement, no looming shadows or chilling threats; it was simply that. A statement. Nothing more, nothing less.

_puppets and playthings_

He was the same Mephisto, same as he had always been; nothing different and nothing changed, save that Shiro saw him for what he was. What he had been all along, behind playful smiles and gaudy clothes. What Shiro had refused to see, despite all the warnings.

_little by little, he will burn you to ashes_

Something stirred inside, as if the calm he'd maintained was that of an ocean sucking in breath before unleashing a tsunami. Something was stirring in the ashes, and he did not want to be around Samael when the waves hit.

"That's that, then." With nothing more to say, he turned and walked.

Part of him still stood before the desk. Parts of him clattered to the floor with every step. Bit by bit he fell apart, suffocated by the hollow void opening in his lungs. He was numb at the moment, but that would wear off soon enough.

Damn if he would let Samael have that last victory.

"One more thing, if you don't mind?"

He did mind – he did mind _a lot..._ But Shiro merely turned his head a fraction, enough to meet the demon's eyes in the periphery of his glasses' frame.

"Why did your parents name you Shiro with the kanji for lion and son?" he inquired in the most flippant, casual, _infuriating_ manner possible.

What the fuck was he playing at? If this was some new damn guessing game that- Tch… Just give the bastard what he wanted. That was the only way to make him stop.

"They lost three foeti before I was born", he responded curtly from the doorway. "Four is bad luck – they'd had enough of that, so they named me after a lion instead." Much bloody good that had done.

"Ah, good old superstition. I shall make all the necessary preparations for your task, then. Keep an eye on your mail compartment, and have a nice-"

The door slammed shut before the greeting could reach its addressee.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:**
> 
>  
> 
>  _"Love?! Who exactly do you take me for? Demons strive to counteract human attachment to romanticised illusions such as love, goodness me."_  
>  – Mephisto, AnE ch 44
> 
>  **Number four** is considered bad luck in both China and Japan, because the pronunciation is similar to that of "death". As a side note to the side note, nobody wants to give birth in hospital room number 43, because the number can be literally read as "still birth".
> 
>  **Sulphur** burns blue, yes. Exact same hue as Satan's flames, too. ;)


	60. Choices: All roads lead to ----

* * *

Each choice shapes the future.

Each choice is shaped by the human who makes it.

Each choice shapes the human who makes it.

* * *

He wasn't sure how he returned to his dorm room. He was vaguely aware that the door had been locked, so Saburota must be out.

Halfway across to his desk and bed, Shiro's feet slowed to a halt, sluggishly wondering what to do now. What to do now...? What did he... usually do…? It all seemed so alien, so far away… He was sure he must be doing something during his days. Just couldn't… recall right now. What he usually did. What he was supposed to do now.

The bed wasn't made, his brain registered dully. Instead of making it – had he been intending to make it? he wasn't sure – he sat down on the edge and… sat. Just sat, unseeing eyes roaming the surroundings for reason. For something to tell him what to do now.

For the longest time, he sat. When the buzzing vacuum in his head didn't tell him what to do, he lay down. Closing his eyes… Closing his eyes invited the intense, irrational hope that it had all been a dream.

That Kita hadn't revealed those things.

That his friends were still friends.

That Mephis-

The darkness burned under his eyelids, burned with liquid flames and sulphur salt. He was so cold, all of a sudden; he gathered the covers over his shivering body, feeling nausea rise in his gut as the world came back to him. All well-meant warnings he'd dismissed, all the people that had worried for him, and he'd truly _believed_ that… that they had been friends…

He'd been so stupid. Too proud and too stupid to see what was really going on.

_Lies._

And he'd believed him. He'd believed that lying, slithering _bastard_ , led on like a dog on a fucking leash - had _defended_ the asshole in Court, defended him before his _friends_ , his _real_ friends, and now-

The sound of wood smashing hard against wood woke him up. He wasn't even aware he'd gotten out of the bed; much less that he'd hurled his chair into Saburota's bookshelf. But it felt good.

It gushed up again, scalding heat that squeezed the air out of his ribcage; he kicked his school satchel across the room, pencils and notepads scattering like dead leaves over the floorboards. The cable flew out of its socket when he hurled the table lamp into the wall; books and papers thudded to the floor as he heaved the table over end; staples pitter-pattered silver rain as stationery was smashed out of the shelves by his hand.

It felt so good.

" _Fucking snake!_ " The ceramic jar with spare pens shattered against the overturned table. " _Double-crossing smooth-talking shit-brained bloody…!_ "

Screw words, they never did any damn good anyway: he lifted the upturned table by its legs and slammed it into the floor.

" _I never left your fucking board!_ " Saburota's chair lost its backrest to the wall with a jarring crack. " _I just didn't move the way you fucking wanted!_ "

One game piece missing from the table – so damn obvious! One game piece that could ensure no others had to be sacrificed – and had he cared?! Had he fucking _cared_ that others would suffer for the choice he made? No, 'cause he'd thought it would be nameless, faceless sacrifices on the other side of the world! No need to care about those, right?! Not so difficult to sacrifice people you'll never meet and never know! Quite damn different when they turned out to be his own friends! Oh but he was always the idiot, wasn't he? Stupid fucking idiot-Shiro had seen firsthand what Mephisto was capable of at the Futotsuki meeting, and _still_ he hadn't had brain enough to get what he meant when he spoke of chess and sacrifices! Thought he was so fucking special, did he?! Thought he had a hand with demons and could be friends with them?!

_**"But you do, puppet-boy"**_ , hissed a voice like susurrus scarab wings.

Water, cool and soft, licked soothingly around his calves. At the black horizon, a bristling sun peeked over the rim. There were frogs on the muddy banks, thrumming an unsteady rhythm for the crickets' solo serenade. Grains of rice rustled shyly in their sheaths, poking his legs as they swayed together in drunken laughter; two roaring lunatics without a care in the world. The future was theirs, full of twinkling promises as the bony ribcage trembled joyously under his hands, so impossibly warm in the chilly dawn. He was always warm, as if the sun breathed in his veins; always warm, always laughing, always-

_**"The best friend you ever had?"** _

Lies. Lies that were snatched away, torn out of his chest with roots of barbed wire twined around his ribs.

_**"Kekekeke awww, how**_ **sweet** _ **~"**_ the demon cooed, rummaging around in his reeling mind for more. _**"So many sweet memories turned bitter~"**_

Humanity was packing up for the night, under the red glow of the market lanterns strung over the square. The plastic chairs were just as ugly, the table just as rickety under the bowls of noodle soup, Mephisto's face just as hilarious when he spat out the broth: and he grinned, he _beamed_ , and Shiro felt the same warmth spread in his remembered body _._ He looked so happy… they had been so happy…

_**"No wonder, when his plans were going so well~"** _

The warmth grew acid hooks, and shredded his flesh as truth robbed him of the illusion once more. Shiro felt the floor hit his knees somewhere outside the darkness, _tried_ to home in on that sensation; tried to ignore the peaceful oblivion that beckoned for his consciousness.

Blinding light, sizzling in the air as it etched shadows into his retina. The laughter bubbled up within ( _no, it was a lie, it was just a memory; it wasn't real, none of it was real_ ) and out of his mouth, and the feeling of weightless happiness flooded him as fireworks shot up over their ridiculous shoujo manga date on Hyakki Yagyou. He could feel the vague burn of Devil's Tongue in his mouth, the lone geta that dangled on his foot; the smile tugging his lips when Mephisto called him Cinderella. ( _no, please, don't…!_ )

_**"The best birthday of your life, was it~? Of course it was."**_ Oh god, just let it stop – the lies, the shame, just make it _stop_! Forget him, forget it all, sink into the sweet embrace of darkness! _**"Forget? No no no: you wanted to**_ remember~ _ **"**_

Light headache churned behind his eyes, but his feet wouldn't stop. Not this day. Gravel scuttled off in flurries of dry dust as he crossed the courtyard, sprayed temporarily by the bliss drops from the fountain. ( _no… please,_ please _…!_ ) And he fingered the dice in his pocket, so unsure of how to hand them over; so nervous that Mephisto wouldn't approve, wouldn't accept them, wouldn't recognise their bond as friendship. ( _it wasn't real, he knew it wasn't, and still it- no, god,_ please _…!_ )

Run, hide, curl up, _anything_ but-

_"If you're gonna have something to remember me by, this is way better than a haircut."_

Lies…

_**"He won't remember you~"**_ it giggled madly, feasting in delight on shame and sharp betrayal. _**"He had thousands of puppets before you; do you think he cared about them? Even that body he wears"**_ , it cooed intimately from the deepening shadows, _**"is just a puppet. He took everything from him: body, soul,**_ love _ **… and he made you trace those footsteps like a good dog~"**_

He didn't care if it was truth or lie. He didn't care… didn't care about anything anymore…

Just let oblivion in… and drown in darkness…

_It's in desperate situations that an exorcist has ta show 'is true strength. If 'e fails ta do that, he'll be defeated: not through magic, not through claws, but through 'is own heart._

Why now…? Why now, when he'd decided to surrender, did those words have to drift into mind…? He had already been defeated, already fallen for the bait, already-

" _I was gonna… make things right…_ "

No. No, he _would_ make things right. He owed her that. Even if it was the _single_ good thing he could do, he would do it. He would bring Kasumi's smile back.

" _I'm gonna make things right._ "

So thin, the ray of light offered by that thought; a sigh in a smothering maelstrom of darkness. And still, one ray of light is all it takes.

Make things right. Give her back that smile he loved. See to it that no others had to play a game they didn't choose.

One single guiding star is enough to navigate the darkest of nights, for it's in the depths of despair that humans find their true strength.

Beaten down and crumpled up, he woke; gathered his mind, murmured the verses that would expel the demon. It left him with a disembodied shriek, left him alone in the shards and shreds of his existence. Broken furniture, broken jars, broken... and alone. Alone, because Samael wanted it so. Easier to manoeuvre him that way. Easier to-

_It's such a bad habit you humans have, blaming your faults on demons._

…he'd chosen Samael, that fateful day in Deep Keep. He'd chosen to be friends with a demon, against all warnings. He'd chosen to listen to a demon's words, knowing full well that he shouldn't.

Who was to blame, in the end…?

" _Fucking idiot…_ " Swallow the tears. Swallow the sobs. Swallow past aching throats and twisting daggers, back into the prison in his chest. Couldn't afford slipping up. It felt good, surrendering care and control to emotion, but he couldn't afford that. " _If I hadn't been such a fucking idiot…_ "

Couldn't afford to let things out, couldn't afford to let them in.

Couldn't afford to cry.

* * *

Each choice shapes the future.

Each choice is shaped by the human who makes it.

Each choice shapes the human who makes it.

…when there is a choice to make.

There are always different paths to walk: but no matter the branching roads choice paves, no matter the mirage forks the future mocks with, one may find that they all, in the end, converge at one single destination.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:**
> 
> There's many reasons I wanted to send Shiro off to Rome: none of them relating to canon. x') I have one thing, though – one very vague thing – that I could claim suggests that Shiro did spend time abroad in canon. Namely, he doesn't beckon people to come closer the way the Japanese do.
> 
> Recall that cute scene where Shiro ties Rin's tie? He beckons him closer the Western way: palm up and wagging his fingers towards himself. In Japan, the normal way of beckoning someone to come near/follow is the one we'd usually interpret as "good bye" or "stay put": palm down, and wagging with straight fingers.
> 
> That's probably the weirdest bloody connection one can make ("A-hah, he uses Western gestures – he must have been in Rome!"), but, well, I needed him in Rome anyway.


	61. names

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N:** I'd like to dedicate this chapter to my dear friend Gecko: you're the opium that gets my muse high and happy, and the magic drops that give my brain creative diarrhoea. xD It's never easy to write Mephisto... so pardon if I miss the mark a bit here. x/
> 
> Contains references to Goethe's _Faust_ , _Dogma_ , _Durarara!!!_ , and _Good Omens_.

  
_Lust…_

The siren song in every human heart, sworn enemy of Love, that would blind with pleasure bliss its host to reason and restraint.

_Greed…_

Daughter of Hunger and sister of Yearning, whose busy hands would nurture selfish want in the carcass of Compassion, and feed the flame of craving till its host is naught but gleaming coals.

_Knowledge…?_

The cleverest of the three, disguised as Virtue and held in reverence supreme. It claimed such epithets as Power, as Freedom, as Treasure – truly, Knowledge was king amongst deceivers. Lack it, and ignorance would chain you like a mule to others' whims and wants; hoard it, and awareness would consume your mind with empty Hope and crippled Faith.

Indeed, was not mankind's hunger for Knowledge her first and greatest Sin…?

* * *

Greed and Lust the Order drilled its followers to deny, but Knowledge…? Knowledge they encouraged, the darling little exorcists, and Knowledge he provided; a gourmet's selection of the finest pieces, of course. After all, it is the amount of a serpent's venom that determines whether it will be potion or poison, boon or bane.

Knowledge is a useful tool, in capable hands – hands now holding a glass of sparkling pink champagne in the office.

Ah, nights in Assiah; what a miracle they were. Infinity seemed so near, bridged by light from distant worlds – so near it shrouded itself shyly in pristine gauze of clouds to escape earth's prying eyes.

Gehenna was no more than a dream half forgotten, those nights. Noxious gales of ash and bone-dust hissing at a sky locked in perpetual, crimson dusk… No stars. No moon. No sun.

A worthless place to call home.

Alas, experience is always useful, if only to establish by comparison that one thing is preferable to another. Blissfully short of such, humans had no idea how blessed they were to have such a sky. They would complain that the city lights were too bright; that the stars paled and drowned in the electric hum that draped pearl necklaces over busy streets. Why, they were right. And it brought a vicious smile to his lips. Such a perfect metaphor, unbeknownst to its creators: humans, so bold, so shameless in their ambitions – outshining heaven herself!

So bold, so easily manipulated in their over-confidence.

To humans, then! He raised the glass bowl on its slender stalk: a toast to the evening sky, to humans, and to the spectacular performance they had put on this opening night. Every scene he'd watched from a front-row seat, breath baited and tongue held, as pathos and logos clashed ferociously on stage. Each line of his ad lib script had leapt flawlessly from the actors' lips, each word a contributing fugue in his symphony of destruction; stringent chords of betrayal torn from love and trust in the pilgrim poet's heart; the curdling lied of irony coaxed from a crusader led astray by good intentions; and the deafening crescendo vested in the silence of a glance that says it all – _ah~_ What a show, what a show.

And the lead actor himself…?

" _Superb_ ", he purred, letting the sparkly tingle of alcohol pleasure his taste buds.

'Tis ever the curse of the refined, to find entertainment worthy of one's attention. Tempting mortals into damnation was hardly what one could call sport; it was a chore, and one that had only become drearier as eternity wore on. But humans were so _creative_ … and after many centuries, he'd begun to test just how creative they were. Rather than lead them straight into Perdition, he led them on merry detours with games and wagers of his choosing. Oh, the rewards had been bountiful~ The sophistication of his schemes evolved with his increasing knowledge of human nature and its mechanisms, evolved to span generations, societies, nations – _centuries_.

Truly, Knowledge was a useful tool.

Demons' appetite knows no sating, the saying goes. Like the flames of Hell made sentient, they seek out pleasure wherever they can find it, licking the bones of Assiah until there is nothing left to devour. Quite the striking allegory, that – sadly, the poet in question had turned out to be rather bland in taste when his time on earth was past.

Indeed, he'd found his appetite for scheming to be insatiable once whet: a discovery that was neither surprising nor particularly bothering. Come now – what sin is there in gluttony, when Assiah's fruits grow endlessly abundant? No, he'd gorged himself on them, royally; had made gambles with himself, seeing how many puppets he could control at a given time, how complex plays he could make them enact – in all likelihood, 'twas the sole addiction of his that could rival that of sugar.

And then… the Order of the True Cross: his Mona Lisa, his Angkor Wat, his pièce de résistance. Secret nooks behind the scenes had been his dwelling for millennia, and all the while he'd felt the spotlight yearn for him to take the stage. He'd waited, plotted, planned… and once he made his entrance, it had been _glorious_. The foundations of Assiah shook that day, when the unthinkable turned undeniable, and a son of Satan was knighted before St. Peter's grave. What a show, what a show – and the _thrill_ …! To be surrounded by exorcists that would have his head – they wished! – if his schemes were revealed; bowing before Pope after Pope, giddy with the knowledge that if his intentions and identity were known…

The greater the challenge, the sweeter the taste of success.

He had not hesitated to take on the greatest challenge of them all, when dear Chance presented him the opportunity. Deceiving his father had raised the stakes to the starry sky and beyond: one move wrong, and Lord Satan would grow suspicious. One move wrong…

The curse of the refined: to find entertainment worthy of one's attention.

Shiro was the same. The hunt for higher peaks, greater challenges, stronger thrills: that boy had all the qualities of one who paves himself a path to an early grave. Not without assistance, of course. For an unrepentant addict whose taste buds had made the purest opiate acquaintance, nothing else would suffice: and he was more than willing to supply. All of Assiah's forbidden fruits were his to dispose. All the kicks a young soul could ever wish for. All the skill of millennia for pulling the strings of Greed and Lust and need for Knowledge.

And when the snare had tightened around the young lion's neck…

" _Superb~_ "

Humans like to ascribe themselves a certain degree of uniqueness; some defining particularity that would set their individual apart from the rest of their kin. Discrepancies he wouldn't deny, but at the core – at the _heart_ – the essentials were the same. Man and woman, high and low: there is no difference between them, once they are broken and ready to sell the one possession they truly own.

Some would sign in wordless defeat, others in unarticulated rage. Some would weep regret; some would heave up the cackle of a shattered mind. Helplessness, they all had in common. Helplessness as only granted by the Knowledge that all doors were closed, and the sole possibility of escape was to bow down and beg for a key.

It takes a certain kind of man, to don the iron collar of submission and make it look like an act of defiance. To wear the mark of thraldom as though it were a crown, and take his leave with back straight and head high. Unyielding. Unbending.

" _How long, I wonder?_ " The first blow must be hardest, to shatter resistance: the rest is detail work, to hammer down and tear a man to pieces before rebuilding him anew. " _How long before you beg me to stop, little lion of mine~?_ "

That delicious mix of rage and sharp betrayal on his face, and so _masterfully_ contained by cold intelligence – truly, a show that merited a toast.

…so why did satisfaction fail to seduce his senses? Why didn't the sweet ambrosia of success intoxicate his wine? Why wasn't he giggling, bouncing, laughing…?

Soundlessly, the glass returned to the table; a towering titan beside the chessboard and its squabbling population.

Knowledge was a useful tool, yes. But not to forget, Knowledge was the greatest amongst deceivers.

He was hardly a stranger to deception: and like one craftsman unto another, one used to pulling its supple strings will know when they are pulled on him. The truly aggravating thing in being deceived by Knowledge, however, is that you are deceived by yourself. By your own mind, and what it knows or doesn't know – or _believes_ that it knows.

" _I trapped you._ " His pensive gaze addressed the black pawn that stood one step ahead of its kinsmen. " _Flawlessly._ " Green eyes narrowed at the silent ebony piece. " _And yet this irksome feeling that you aren't entirely mine…?_ "

_Shiro_

Countless men throughout history had been named after lions, with hopes of gaining their fearlessness and strength; laughable fancies, steeped in superstition and echoes of arcane knowledge. Human names held no such power to decide a bearer's nature. Human names were arbitrary things, no more meaningful than the buzz of a mosquito. Still…

_Shiro_

White. Lion son.

Normally, he would shrug it off as coincidence… but Shiro was capable of things beyond human limitations.

Shiro was born perfectly healthy to a couple that seemed unable to produce healthy offspring.

Shiro was _unique_.

Coincidence…? Coincidence was a human word, shaped by human minds that lacked the faculties to perceive coherence in chaos; lacked the ability to see how Choice spread ripples across the river of time, and the complex patterns of interference it gave rise to.

For millennia, he'd seen time unfold, seen paths and possibilities birth, fork, twist, and end: seen how one thing connected to another, miles and ages apart. There was no such thing as Fate. There was no such thing as Coincidence. Not for one who saw the causal strings that wove the history of Creation, and played on them with Paganinian expertise.

There were only two others, beside him, who possessed that kind of perception. Two other pairs of hands at work behind the curtain, with the skill to coax their music of choice from those strings.

Equilibrium. The frail fulcrum supporting Creation. It was a common misconception, ludicrous as it was, that equilibrium necessitated homeostasis. Not so – the opposite, in fact. The essence of Creation was change, in a carefully controlled succession of destruction and recreation. Like little whirlpools in the river of time, countless small cycles repeated that carried Creation onwards: spring followed winter, day followed night, death followed birth. Unbroken cycles of constant change, each a part of the complex equilibrium that kept the world afloat. For each and every thing, a counterpart to balance on the opposite side of the scales.

For life, there must be death.

For light, there must be darkness.

For Devil, there must be…

He closed his eyes, called upon his powers to stretch his consciousness past the borders of materia and ether, and reached for the fulcrum. The centre of Creation.

* * *

What lies at the centre of Creation itself…? Why, the cradle of eternity, hovering above the dome of the sky, where all that is and will be has become the seeding soil of dreams and memories unborn. Like the nave in a revolving wheel, the centre of Creation is still. The flow of time is different there: a difference so unfathomably great that it had, long ago, resulted in the nave being so out of phase with the rest that it had become a separate dimension.

It filled him with a rather disoriented feeling, going there. It was the future, he knew that with every particle of his essence: and yet it was the past. And simultaneously, it was further teasing his perception by feeling as though this place were not so much _in_ the river of time as sitting on the banks beside it, fishing. It was a place where the basis for his powers was dislocated, unrecognisable – it was, he assumed, the closest that he with his regenerative abilities would come to the sensation of missing a limb.

He didn't go to the _exact_ centre – the thought had its appeal, certainly, but that fragrant garden hid behind a most unpleasant guardian with an even more unpleasant sword. Immortality in all its glory; he was not about to test its limits against a blade of smokeless fire.

…but devils will be devils.

"Greetings, my good sir~" He presented the guard his most _sincere_ bow; offering his bared neck in doing so. "I assume I am expected?"

His smile met with… why, nothing, really. The tall guard didn't move a muscle; didn't even deign him a glance.

"What a way to greet a visitor." He heaved an animated sigh before measuring the sentry – Uriel, was it? – head to toe with his eyes. Guards were suitably picked to look imposing, and this one in particular was the archetype – quite literally – of all guards. Huge. Rigid. Grave.

He knew how to deal with that kind.

"Your predecessor was more of the conversational type", he struck up in glib, chatty tone. "Never did meet him in person, but, you know – word goes around. He didn't seem to consider demons all that bad", he smiled amiably, making sure that it was wide enough for his fangs to show. "Ever thought of installing a door bell? Or a knocker, at least – I know you're not too keen on modern stuff. Just thinking, since we seem to have encountered some difficulty in communication and I really do need to get in touch with your boss. The sooner the better – I'm a busy man, you know?" Oh, was that a twitch of annoyance in his left eye~? "The name is Samael – you may have heard of me?" he continued cordially, touching his fingers to the brim of his hat.

"We are aware who you are."

Unmistakable voice, unmistakable-

" _A suit… over a hoodie… and it's_ brown _…_ " It is no secret that fashion was invented in Hell, but was that _really_ reason enough for angels to show such utter disregard for it? "Often heard, seldom seen – a pleasure to finally meet you in person, Metatron." Just focus on his face, nothing else – good lord, and he was meant to represent God before mankind dressed like _that_? "I admire your zeal, I do: relating over and over a message that each time fails to leave a lasting impression on human perception must require patience beyond belief. That said", he smiled politely at the dark-haired newcomer on the other side of the gates, "I would like a word with the Lord in person, if you would be so kind and tell her holiness I'm here?"

"The Lord is too busy with Creation to grant an audience", answered Metatron in his deep, resonant voice; the kind of voice that didn't need him to spell out _to a demon_ for it to echo in the tight-lipped silence that followed.

"Too busy to grant an audience, but never too busy to see an old friend", he ensured congenially. "Be a dear and ask her, will you? Time is no problem for either of us, I'm sure."

The dark-haired angel seemed about to reply that he was no "dear" to the likes of him, but was cut short when the gold gates of Eden swung inwards and very nearly knocked him down.

"Samael!"

Ah, the _true voice_ : like sunbeams riding on a warm breeze, washing over his face. All light seemed to billow for an instant, heaving itself up in rejoice like a mellifluous flower bursting into bloom with all the fragrances of Paradise.

…verdammte Allergien. Discreetly, he produced a handkerchief from his sleeve and muted a sneeze in it. Meanwhile, Uriel responded by falling down on one knee, flaming sword-tip in the soil and hands clasped around the hilt. Bowing his head in reverence, like a good dog, the gate guard murmured the Name of the Ancient One as she strode out through the gates.

"Your presence honours me, your holiness." Handkerchief magically gone, he removed his hat with a flourish and bowed, scraping his right boot as in days of yore.

"Yes, yes, never mind that: look what I've made!"

Several rather well known literary works have made an effort to depict God as a being of great majesty; an omnipotent and omniscient entity that should be approached with a suitable amount of awe.

The authors of these books have never met God, nor have they had her stick her latest clay sculpture quite literally in their faces.

"Charming, your holiness." He reared himself back up, looming high over the beaming happy woman who sported mud stains on her face and overalls, and dark, braided hair that refused to stay braided. Indeed, the authors of humanity's great scriptures have never met God. "Another splicing experiment, like the mantis prawn?"

"No, I'm done with splicing: I was just thinking of the introduced species problem in New Zealand. The kiwi isn't equipped for land predators – but! If it evolves like this, with feathers forming into spines like the echidnas', it would have all the protection it needs! No, wait: there's more~ It could go like _this_ , too. Here, hold this for a moment", Uriel almost dropped his sword as he juggled to free one hand and hold the clay bird without compromising the delicate quills, "and look: the feathers are already two-branched, so if they evolve to fuse and thicken, they could use the same solution as the pangolin! Isn't that just wonderful?" she chirped, holding forth a clay design reminiscent of a gigantic spruce cone with beak and legs.

Ah, yes: there is a reason it was decided that Metatron would handle communication with mankind.

"Most wonderful, your holiness", he agreed. "Your ingenuity in these matters never fails to astound me – speaking of which, I came to inquire about a certain specimen in its current position in time."

"The Mongolian death worm? It _does_ exist, you know." God pointed the spruce cone kiwi at him, with her other muddy hand resting affirmatively on her hip. "It just won't be discovered until mankind finds a way to mimic electrolocation in sand – but when they do find it, it will be a _huge_ leap forward in medical technology, since its bile has properties that can trigger new formation of neurons in the mammalian brain."

"My Lord", Metatron calmly spoke up, in an attempt to do his job, "Samael came to demand an audience."

"Demand? Such forceful phrasing: the King of Time is but a loyal servant, your holiness." He bowed anew, right hand over his heart. "'Tis courteous, in so great a lord, to speak so kindly with a devil – and speak I wish, if your holiness does not mind? Can I offer you some tea?"

A table for two materialised as his mind imagined it: and in the same manner, the clay-stained overalls of her holiness were replaced with perceptions more pleasant to the eye.

It's a special place, the dimension where time has been suspended in the future since the dawn of Creation. It's a place where whispers of Names forgotten still linger, like motes of dust saturating air, earth, water, and every being living therein. It's a place where Creation is still malleable, to those who speak its mother tongue.

"Loyalty may not be one of your hallmarks, Samael, but let it never be said that you aren't a gentleman", she tittered. "I can take a tea break. Fufufu and I see what _your_ mind has been busy with." Familiar amusement tinged her voice as she examined the satin evening gloves his mind had clad her in, and the halter neck dress that framed her curves in flattering red.

Indeed, the kind of woman he would be very 'busy' with, had she had physical form: the kind of woman apparently neither Metatron nor Uriel could even look at. Really, angels – too prudish to appreciate the splendor of their Lord.

"My mind was busy, of a fashion. And while on the subject, it seems to me your holiness has been spying on my dealings with a certain young exorcist student?" he inquired pleasantly, pulling the chair out for her and willing into existence cups, saucers, doilies, and a charming little floral-patterned English teapot. Some biscuits, too, of course, and fresh, warm scones with cream cheese and five kinds of jam.

"Spying is what _you_ do, dear: I _observe_." She sent a smile past her shoulder as she seated herself. "It's great entertainment, though, that odd connection of yours; I think I enjoy your bantering nearly as much as you do. Or did."

It never changed, that smile, despite what form his mind or hers wove around it.

God has no shape, of course. God is the ethereal eidolon of hope in every human heart: 'twas factual long before Nietzsche spoke it, that Truth takes on a different shape in every pair of eyes.

"By past tense, I assume you are implying that he won't want to banter with me after our last chat?" he inquired effortlessly, seating himself across from her. Rococo chairs – furniture simply wasn't made that way anymore. Made with the love and skill accumulated by generations of carpenters, and stylish to boot.

"You were very cruel to him", she observed, calmly cutting scones for both of them.

"Carrot and stick to break the stallion, your holiness. Or should I say 'break the lion'?" he led on casually as he draped one leg over the other, tugging his gloves off to make his scone.

"Hmm, and here I thought it was Satan's second youngest who enjoyed breaking his toys?"

"'Breaking' allows for a wide range of interpretation, your holiness." Hmm, strawberry jam, or cloudberry…? "Not to worry, I won't break him beyond repair: I'm aware it's precious goods I'm handling. He has unique potential, that young man; uncharted, but unique. For that reason I aim to add him to my stable, before the same idea puts down roots in someone else's mind." She would pick up on the hint, he was sure. After all, they had been exchanging jibes and blows for a very, _very_ long time.

"Oh my, who would dare to compete with the King of Time …?"

Yes, she knew – and it delighted her that he knew as well. Yet another thing the Vatican would never see the humour in: god and devil think alike, although they use their wits for different ends.

"A white lion", he said with feathery pleasantness, coming clear with his intentions. "And a descendant of the exiles." A quick glance, to see her knowing smile mirror his own, as he laid the knife to the side and reached for the cream cheese. "Not very subtle, your holiness."

"Talking big, are we?" She winked, taking a bite out of her strawberry jam scone. "It must have been subtle enough if it took you over a year to grow suspicious, Samael", she spoke through the food, eliciting a reflexive impulse in him to admonish her for poor table manners.

Truly – six younger brothers and all that does to you…

"For the longest time I held Lady Chance accountable, but the coincidence was simply too striking not to have been engineered; likely by someone with a penchant for symbolism."

"Symbols are the language of eternity", she said serenely. As if it had always been there, a tiny jar of minced onion had joined the set of jam bowls. "Mmh, I would love to taste this for real some day…" she munched out with a blissful sigh. "Y'know, when humans first started taming the elements, I could never have guessed how well they would make use of them. Cooking is just an amazing thing."

God is an artist, and one who enjoys experimenting. Strawberry jam and onion on scones was one of the less spectacular ventures into the possibilities Assiah offered; the Great Flood was one of the more… drastic. To be fair, it had been that or total erasure, and he was not one to complain about her choice in that matter.

…fine, he had complained. A lot. That had been the first time he heard God laugh, now that he thought back on it: and learnt the other reason Metatron was charged with speaking on behalf of God. The event had left him partially deaf for a decade to follow – but she had, on the other hand, never thrown another cataclysm. Nor was she likely to do so. Like his father, God was deeply enamoured with Assiah; like his father, she was incapable of interacting with it directly.

Of course, for a divine being of infinite power, such restrictions were minor details. If even that. Satan had found ways to carry out his will in Assiah, through slaves that could possess matter without complications: and God…

"The language of eternity comes part and parcel with eternal interpretations, your holiness", he stated whilst wiping off the jam knife on the edge of his own scone. "And though my reading skills are first-rate, I fail to see what need there would be for someone like him in this time and place."

Ah, plum jam. The English may lack every trait of civilization in regards to cuisine, but their afternoon tea was… a piece of art. Even Japan, with all her lovely customs, couldn't quite match the ambience of floral-patterned bone china, and biscuits stacked high on those adorable tiered cake stands.

"Ineffable plans, you know?" God smiled and licked jam from her finger. "Although I wouldn't say there was one at all for him. He is… another wild card", she said with an emphasis that indicated he ought to understand the joke. He didn't, but that was no reason to put his bemusement on display. "His mother prayed every day of her pregnancy for that child to live, so…" She ate the last bite, and dusted crumbs off her hands. "I let him live. I'm sure he will prove to be important somehow."

"I'm sure he will." There were plans. Ineffable – perhaps even embryonic – but he had discerned strings attached to Shiro that weren't his. And certainly not his father's. And God…

God enjoyed experimenting.

"Are you going to tell me to keep my hands off your game piece, your holiness?" he asked politely, carefully avoiding getting crumbs in his beard when he dined.

"I will tell you neither: you have your plots and schemes, I have mine~" Oh, there were plans. And she took great delight in not sharing them. "Fujimoto Shiro isn't subject to monopoly of any kind, so go ahead and play. The question is", she teased, index finger raised to poke the question in mid-air, "will your devious machinations now include me~?"

"Such words, your holiness: how could a mere demon ever connive to play Thee?"

"A mere demon wouldn't even speak to me, let alone picture me in this form." She leaned forward, slowly, and slipped the pink handkerchief out of his chest pocket with an impish smile. "And yet you claim that's all you are, Samael. Tsk tsk~"

There was absolutely no need for her to wipe her lips with his handkerchief in that manner, except to make him regret that he chose to imagine her in that damnably attractive dress.

"I think that form rather suits your deportment towards a demon of my standing, your holiness", he returned pleasantly.

"Fufufufu always my favourite scamp among spirits…!" she tittered; and there was something about _God_ tittering that never failed to pull his own lips into a smile. Hmm, yes, and Metatron quietly talking sense into a frothing Uriel made quite a nice addition to the picture, too. "A waggish knave, wasn't that what I called you? Still applies", she smiled. "But, as for the young lion in question…" The look she sported was one that ecclesiastics worldwide would be greatly surprised to find on their Lord's face. Indeed, god and devil think alike. "What do you say we bet on whose game piece he will be, as we did before?"

A bet…?

A bait, more like.

"Your holiness' charming mien betrays a hint of mockery, I believe…? Just so that it's said; there is nothing to bet on if the outcome is already known."

"Known?" she laughed; not loud, no, but enough to make the china clatter as though an earthquake had reached them all the way from the physical realm. "Oh you! We're both apt at making maps and paving paths, but the only thing we _know_ is that time and ineffable plans are no match for the capriciousness of a human heart. I was merely wondering", she smiled, adding some freshly created pickled herring to her cloudberry jam scone, "if you were willing to take the risk and gamble with me again?"

"Risk? Your holiness, I shouldn't need remind you: our last bet I won fair and square", he pointed out, dabbing crumbs from his lips with a white linen napkin.

"And yet I wonder if you didn't lose more than you won?" she said with a gleam in her eye, as if once again pulling a joke that passed him completely by; now, however, she was aware that he didn't follow.

"Lose?" he snorted. Losing was not a habit of his, and he had most certainly not lost that bet. "My victory was complete: my prize a soul expertly seasoned, and a body to call my own."

…and the statement only made her lips stretch in the manner Shiro had so accurately termed "smugging" someone.

"How is your research into artificial life creation going~?"

God was an omniscient being, yes. Were he to name any flaw in her, it would be precisely that.

"With all due respect to our discrepancies: is it really prim and proper for your holiness to take such delight in others' failures?"

"Failure? Dear Samael, I regard that as your greatest achievement yet! It's rare, for a _mere demon_ , to make such… _efforts_ … for a human being~"

…her omniscience, and her infuriating way of using him to practice marksmanship with the knowledge it granted.

"Do refrain from such insinuations, your holiness; they spoil my appetite. 'tis only natural, to wish to keep one's favourite toys in play a while longer."

"M-hm: if you say so, Sammy~" Who ever said that God is just? God is a gloating elder sibling – with terrible table manners and no sense of proper dress – who yanks one's tail _because she can_. "I shouldn't need remind you", she echoed his words with a _detestable_ smile, "time brings change, even to you." She bopped his nose lovingly, as if he were but a little child that had yet to grow his horns. " _Especially_ to you. If I bet that you can't corrupt Fujimoto Shiro's soul: will you bet against me~?"

The irony. The _humiliation._ The masterful, _infuriating_ humiliation…!

" _So, I baited him, and he was the bait I swallowed without even thinking._ " Disgraceful – to be so utterly played for a fool…! " _What's your plan, then?_ " he growled inwardly, trying to read the pleased poker face before him. " _What would be your gain if I sought to further snare Fujimoto Shiro?_ " Tch, no use. With all of Creation for game board, it's a fool's pastime to guess what the purpose of one pawn is.

Of course, he let none of his irritation show. He was no uncouth lout who let impulse obstruct reason. He was a prince, a king, and a master schemer: no God or Devil would ever play him if he could have a say in the matter.

"It pains me to say it, but I am far too busy with my own plots and schemes to add another game to my agenda", he excused with impeccable courtesy. "Even ones as pleasant as those we share from time to time, your holiness."

"Always 'busy', hm~?"

"Always", he returned with a flirtatious smirk as he rose from his seat.

"It's been a pleasure speaking with you, Samael", she smiled, offering him the handkerchief back.

He accepted the pink cloth, and her fingers with it – and touched his lips gently to the back of her hand.

"Pleasuring your holiness in every way I can~"

"Fufufufu you'd better leave now, or Uriel will have your head on the highest spike of the Pearly Gates."

* * *

So, that's how it was…

He opened his eyes, finding that his body wore the same grin he'd worn when his astral form bade Uriel and Metatron farewell. It lasted a regrettably short time, however. Knowledge is a useful tool… but can shift hands all too suddenly.

"I can almost hear you laughing, you know", he told the pawn reproachfully. "You'd say it serves me right, no? That I deserve to know what it's like to be a pawn in another's game?"

The silence only served to make it easier for his mind to fill in what Shiro would have retorted. The little hotspur…

"Snrrkukukuku… Indeed, who are we to poke fun of mortals and their desires, hm~?" He nudged the pawn with a claw, gently, so as not to move it out of position. "We, who are so shamelessly addicted to the virtues and vices at play in your hearts?" Seeing as the pawn didn't interrupt, he continued in conversational tone: "Eternity is dreadfully boring, you know – 'tis no wonder we resort to bets and games to pass the time. Immortals have always found it nigh impossible not to tamper with the flick'ring candle flames of human life."

Oh, but even those games needed some extra spice from time to time~ Without taking his eyes from the chessboard, he snapped his fingers and summoned a shogi tile to his assistance.

"But it's when immortal plays immortal that truly wondrous games unfold; games that shift earth and sky and paradigm."

With a decisive click, he placed the tile marked with _ōshō_ on the chessboard, flanking the deviant black pawn. New set-up, new rules; oh, what a session this would be~

"You may find there's more vicious players than I in this three-man game of chess, Shiro: ones famed for bold moves and sacrificed pawns. You might even prefer to be played by me, once Knowledge has informed you of the layout…?"

Smooth and cool, the board surface clung to the heat as he dragged his naked fingertips across it; and turned his back to it, striding slowly towards the high windows and the greedy city lights that ate the stars. The pulse of life beat slowly in the air, the pulse of all the billions of humans living under that sky: clueless, creative little pawns to those who possessed Knowledge of the grand games that took place on Assiah's soil…

"Who are you calling cruel, your holiness?" he murmured, seeing the dim, green glow of his eyes swim amongst the lights on the other side of the glass. "Who was it that speared his soul on a hook and dragged it through Acheron's waters, so I could be reeled into your plans?"

He could feel it, like myriads of ants crawling over his skin: paths of the future changing, branching, replacing old possibilities with new and strewing his chosen lane with minefields of uncertainty.

" _A pawn we both use that neither monopolises, you say...?_ " His eyes fell on the panorama at his feet, at the chess board and its thousands of pawns. Most of them he would never utilise. Some he would. Some were weapons, some were decoys, some were keys to other pawns. His focus shifted then; the view through the window faded, allowing his reflection to come into view once more. " _A wild card..._ "

Schemes with no margin for error are worthless. The future is flexible, with all the intricate patterns of interference that determine its course: obstacles and possibilities spawn incessantly, and are consumed just as quick by the eternal continuum of Change.

Schemes had to be flexible. Like water shaping its course over stick and stone, they had to change and evolve with circumstance: and so, his plans were never so rigid that a twist of fate could not be absorbed without breaking them. Never so narrowly cut that he could not enjoy a sojourn from Chance and Serendipity – twin mistresses whose courtship he very much appreciated. After all, it was the element of unpredictability that made playing this game so interesting. So fun.

_So challenging._

He broke into laughter, then: roiling, cackling laughter, while the city lights below – _his_ city, _his_ starlit stage! – bathed his thin form in eerie shadows.

"'Collateral damage', hm~?" he grinned, eyes agleam with a lunatic's excitement. "I wonder what kind of collateral damage will be left in the wake of this ineffable game? What battles will be won, what sacrifices made; how high the tally of loss must reach, to let the victor scale the pile of corpses to the sky? Will you hear their wailing then, your holiness? The pitiful chorale of mortals wondering what higher purpose their misery is funding, and if the recompense is truly worth the cost? Between divine and diabolic; who can tell the two apart, as motives differ while the methods are deceptively alike?"

Swam in the net and swallowed the bait - and couldn't wait, _couldn't wait_ to see what lay around the next road-bend! Who would lead and who would follow, in this twisted tango whirling on the precipice of Perdition? Black and white and turncoat grey, all drawn like moths to flame by this flickering Possibility to shape the course of history – oh, this game just got _wahnsinnig gut!_

"And you wish me to drag a poor human into this pandemonium of clashing chords and twisted strings? Well well…" His arms spread outward as he spoke - a slow, graceful unfolding of a fleur du mal - and he grinned, eyes gleaming, as he addressed the starry dome outside the glass. "Thy Will be done~"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  **Just so that I don't go spreading misinformation** , I'm gonna point out that I'm tweaking things a bit. There's a difference in pronunciation of shiro (white) and Shirō (usually transcribed Shirou). So the two aren't homophonous, and this is to be regarded as more of a pun thing – say, if you pronounced Shiro's name a bit sloppily, you'd get "white". (Like "Harry" and "hairy": a pun that is the basis for a well-known Swedish abridged series of Harry Potter.) Kato probably intended something to that effect, since she based the dynamic between Shura and Shiro on a kabuki played called _Renjishi_ , in which a white parent lion teaches a red lion cub about life in a very hands-on manner.
> 
> That I'm writing his name as plain "Shiro" is because… it looks better. Typographically. I mean, look at the balance. Odd number of letters always looks better. Catchier. Especially disyllabic names with one closed syllable coupled with one open syllable. It's a perfect inclination in letter height, too: it forms a much more natural, balanced entity for the eye to rest on than "Shirou".
> 
> (Yep, I'm aware that I sound ridiculous when I start this kind of monologue, but it doesn't make it any less true that I pay insane attention to this kind of stuff. x'D)
> 
>  **Opening night** is the premiere performance.
> 
>  **Pathos** stems from Greek, meaning suffering or experience. Not suffering per se, but the rhetorical art of invoking emotion (the spectrum of grief in particular, but not necessarily) in one's audience to bias it towards making a certain judgement: a judgement not based on reason, but on emotion.
> 
>  **Logos** is, again, Greek, and means many things: speech is the rhetorical meaning. It's the power of the word itself, and its capacity to convey a message to listeners.
> 
>  **Ad lib** is short for ad libitum, meaning at liberty. In music, this means you have the liberty to improvise – in a fashion complying with fundamental aspects of the music such as prescribed chords – the melody or tempo in which you play. It's about the same meaning in theatre.
> 
>  **Fugue** is another musical word. It's the term for a composition that uses several individual melodies (or the same melody at different pitches) that interweave to form a harmony. I really like the theory of creating intertwining layers and weaving them into something bigger, so I tend to mimic that (or try to) when I write.
> 
>  **Niccólo Paganini** was an Italian virtuoso violinist, rumoured to have attained his skill through a pact with the Devil. He's said to have had extremely long fingers, which would explain why he could do things on a violin that few others could (or can).
> 
>  **Uriel** is the guardian of the gates of Eden. He's also known to be as fierce and unforgiving as any demon, so… No climbing that fence if you want to keep your head.
> 
>  **Aziraphale** is the name of the first holder of the flaming sword, according to the gentlemen Gaiman and Pratchett.
> 
>  **Metatron** is the Voice of God. This particular version of him, with hoodie and suit, is from the lovely film _Dogma_ , where he's played (of course) by the Voice himself: Alan Rickman.
> 
>  **ōshō** is the shogi tile denoting the king.
> 
>  **Acheron** is one of the five rivers of the Underworld in Greek mythology: more precisely, it is the river of pain. In the Inferno part of Divina Comedia, Acheron constitutes the border to Hell.
> 
>  **Wahnsinnig gut** \- insanely good. (German)
> 
>  **Fleur du mal** \- flower of evil. (French, from Baudelaire's collection of poems titled _Les Fleurs du Mal_.)
> 
> I wouldn't say I'm a fan of **Megadeth** , but when writing my brain burped up Symphony of Destruction as the obvious natural choice when Mephisto was reviewing his work, and my subconscious tends to have better ideas than my waking mind anyway. =w='
> 
>  
> 
> _Just like the Pied Piper_  
>  Led rats through the streets  
> We dance like marionettes,  
> Swaying to the Symphony...  
> Of Destruction


	62. Different eyes

It's amazing, how little that actually changes when the world goes under.

The sky is still blue, the birds still sing, the breaks are still too short. The world doesn't care. Not one bit.

Only humans do.

They seemed to only exist in the periphery of his vision, peoples' eyes. Cautious glances en passant. Skulking peeks barricaded behind books. Curious, prying, but never asking.

You could tell by the eyes who was exorcist and who was regular student, these days. Regular students stepped out of his way, eyes tiptoeing past his for fear of angering the violent delinquent with the moniker Satan's Vessel. Exorcists' eyes lingered on him like fingers on a trigger, ready to do what had to be done at first sign the Devil had claimed his host.

Different eyes. Different truths.

One thing remained indisputably true. If the God of Demons did obtain his vessel, there was no contesting him. There was no student, teacher or field exorcist on site who could fight him off: no course of action possible, save one.

Destroy the vessel.

* * *

Shizuku's eyes were obsidian black, forged in the maw of a volcano and unrelentingly hard when ignoring him. He sat next to Ryuuji in cram school, as the half-demon had been assigned to copy notes for him as long as his arm was in cast. Shiro had apologised for that, hadn't meant to hurt him in their brawl, but…

Words. What use are they, when they can't change anything?

* * *

Midori's eyes were wasp venom, sharp and burning and persistent. How he had gained that strength; what Mephisto had done to him; how he could be able to host Satan – questions, questions. Always the same questions. Always the same answers.

"Why don't you answer? Why shield him, Shiro-kun?" She tailed him in the corridors, relentless. She wasn't screaming: only her eyes were. They searched him, pierced him, clawed at him. She wanted to know. She wanted to understand: wanted to help.

"Because he has nothing to do with this." He tried to walk past and leave her begging eyes behind. "Please, Midori-chan: I'm trying to get to my cla-"

"You go nowhere."

He didn't. He stopped dead in his tracks, with one hand frozen still where it had been about to deposit a cigarette between his teeth. He stopped, because that wasn't Midori.

"You stay, and you _answer_ ", she snarled, hairs bristling and lips drawn back from her teeth. She was blocking his escape, ready to drag words out of him by force if need be. "What are you, Shiro-kun?" Midori's ears streaked backwards over her head, quivering. "You look human, you smell human: why is demon's strength in your arms? Why is demon's look in your eyes?" She advanced a step with each question, barking them at him in forceful growls, backing him into the wall. "Why do demons have a home in your heart? You say Pheles has nothing in this." Midori halted her advance. She was magnificent… A demon's strength and a human's heart, joined as one in the radiant force of nature that pressed him into the corridor wall. "I say you lie."

Yes. He lied. And lived the lie, as he'd agreed to do for a chance to set his wrongs right.

* * *

Sen… He could see himself reflected in her big, vacant eyes. There was nothing there: no pity, fear, compassion, or rejection. Nothing but a man's dim silhouette framed in darkness.

It was Sen who told him that Midori had been temporarily suspended from school, after threatening Samael in person to tell the truth. He should've known, when her seat had been empty during class, but…

 _But she shouldn't have gotten in trouble for his sake_.

No one should do that. That was the whole point: him steering the shit away from others. Midori wasn't supposed to get in trouble.

Midori wasn't supposed to care about him.

"You aren't like the Futotsuki. You aren't like anyone." Sen had been calm. The unnerving variety of calm. You aren't calm when your girlfriend gets suspended for threatening the principal's life. "Are you sure you are completely human, Shiro-kun? You had no grandparent of demon blood?"

"No, I'm human. All relatives I know of are human. I'm just…" Yeah, what? "…different."

* * *

The demon had pulled all strings he had to make the Council conclude that Shiro's lash-out had been provoked – severely provoked – and that it was a perfectly human response to the immature, hazardous course of action the Yaonaru brothers had taken. The blame was on them, if anything, for acting on petty spite and endangering the rest of the school. And hadn't the incident proven, rather than refuted, that Shiro was able to protect himself from possession even when dealt harsh psychological blows?

There seemed to be all the words one could ever need, when a demon reached out for them.

* * *

Philosophy. Theology. Italian. Sessions with Father Hayashi. The new curriculum filled out his formerly airy schedule to that of a full-time university student. There was always homework to be done, books to study, papers to write: every waking hour, there were tasks calling for his attention. Shiro didn't mind. Didn't mind at all.

Distraction is an underestimated painkiller.


	63. Inferno

Italian lessons had been assigned to a classroom Shiro had never heard of. Several turns of asking finally had him navigating the library building that housed literature in foreign languages. Top of the Eastern tower, the librarian had said. One reached it via a richly embellished spiral staircase in the corner. The room in question was a reading room, designed as a studiolo in Italian Renaissance style, but it had ended up being used as storage space. The miscalculation was, as it often is, the human factor: students couldn't be bothered to haul books up five floors of stairs just to read in a fancy environment.

When Shiro pushed open the creaky door, he found that the studiolo had been restored to its former function. Book cabinets, inlaid with the Order's emblem in intarsia, had been custom built to cover six of the octagonal tower's walls. Behind them, heavy, burgundy wallpaper climbed up to a frieze that encircled the room with the Order's motto: _Bellum Fatum Vita Mori_. Above it, the walls gathered in a deep blue dome painted with the stars and their constellations: Libra, Pisces, Hydra, Orion…

"Cosy, isn't it?"

Shiro's attention snapped to the high, stained glass window, where the thick tower walls provided a niche deep enough to sit in. And on the lavish, tasselled cushions in that niche, there did indeed sit someone already.

" _You_ are gonna teach me Italian?"

Had there not been a very good reason for him to learn Italian, Shiro would have walked out and slammed the door behind him.

"I'm the only person in this school who is fluent in both Italian and Japanese", Samael clarified with casual ease.

Person, was it? Counting himself among the teachers, exorcists, students; _humans_. Without an ounce of shame. It was deliberate, no doubt: no words came out of that mouth by chance. And the bastard sat there, _lounging_ , with a sassy smile that-

A smile that had always contained the challenge to go against him. Contest his position. Measure his skill. _Play._

" _I won't fucking play._ " Without a word, Shiro let the door click shut around them. " _But I won't admit defeat by_ _you_." On cue, Samael rose from the niche, graceful as a cat, and assumed a seat at the plain wooden table at the centre of the room. Effortless. In control. " _You knew my decision even before I made it, didn't you?_ " Shiro closed the distance to the other chair with no hurry and no hesitation, steadily meeting the vivid green eyes that matched the stained glass. " _Every movement I make, you read. Every thought I have, you predict. Or plant._ " He dumped his books on the table and pulled out the chair to sit. " _A smarmy fucking snake, that's what you a-_ "

"Buongiorno~!"

Shiro jumped back reflexively as Mephi- as Samael sprang up from the chair like some insane jack-in-the-box, arms spread and face beaming.

"Lesson one!"

Shiro's head jerked backwards, to avoid the finger shoved at his face: a motion that let him be successfully ambushed by the chair he had pulled out.

He crashed down gracelessly in a sprawl of limbs and furniture.

"Italians are very expressive, with body language and verbal language alike", the demon explained, surveying his floored handiwork with a pleased smile. "So when you talk, make sure to talk with your whole body."

Shiro took a moment to close his eyes and take a deep breath, to cool a _compelling_ urge to throw things. Right. Samael taught by practical example.

Italian lessons would be hell.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:**
> 
> _Bellum Fatum Vita Mori?_
> 
> I'll say straight away that I'm not sure about which order to read the motto in, on the emblem, because I suck at heraldry. And though "manga Latin" is vastly different from actual Latin, I gave translation a go. It didn't turn out very well. x'D Latin grammar being the hell it is, it's possible to get many different sentences. If you have any experience with Latin translation, _please_ let me hear your opinion!
> 
> If you peek at the illustrations of the Order's emblem, there's two possible ways of reading the motto. It doesn't matter which, really, but the placement of fatum could determine its use as either verb or noun, and its relation to bellum could make the latter either a noun or an adjective. Anyhow:
> 
> 1) Bellum fatum; vita mori – a beautiful fate, to die from life / to die in a vivacious manner
> 
> 2) Bellum, vita: mori fatum – War, Life: (it is) fate to die (I would've liked an est here at the end, though) / War, Life: to die has been spoken
> 
> **TL;DR**  
>  In essence: (beautiful) fate, war, life, and to die (either through something beautiful or through life itself). I suppose one can guess the gist of it, with or without coherent sentences.
> 
> **_luzmela1_** is a dear friend of mine and a recently awoken poet and writer. She did a looser but way more beautiful interpretation that I wanted to share with you:
> 
> _The beauty of life is the fate to die."_


	64. Inquirer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Those who actually know their Bible** are most welcome to point out if I've misunderstood something. I pick most of the reasoning from articles by various Catholic bishops, but there's a lot of room for human error when transcribing that from article to fiction. Please, guys: if you spot any blunders, help me correct them!

_It will be quite different from your other subjects. You are required to learn, but above all you are required to grow; the only exam you need to pass is being_ _convincing enough to be elected among the catechumens. They will want to see the signs of budding faith in you, see that you have already begun converting in heart, and that you repent in earnest and wish to change your way of life – and no pre-marital frivolities, of course. Absolutely inhumane conditions, if you ask me, so if you ever need relief I'll be happy to summon Carmilla for you._

_Now, in order to be convincing you'd do well to begin as a searcher and grow by degree, so that they can observe your progress. Listen, inquire, and make it seem like you soak up every word. The sponsor I've secured for you is a trusting old soul; it won't be hard to convince him that your intentions are sincere. The parishioners might require more effort, but if the shepherd is convinced then the sheep are likely to follow.  
_

* * *

Once a week Shiro took the tram to Southern True Cross Town, far off where the Academy was no more than a swollen zit on the horizon. He'd never really been to those parts, only knew what was said of them in that kids' rhyme he'd learnt long ago.

_If you ever visit True Cross East, you'll be beaten blue at least_  
If you journey to the West, you'll see stuff you never guessed  
If you're going to the summer South, all day long you'll stuff your mouth  
But if it's to the wintry North you're going, you'll see the wealth of some is growing

Absolutely pointless. Like all kids' rhymes.

"And on the mountain at the centre of it all, reigns the mighty emperor in heaven's hall." The last line passed his lips in a murmur as he threw a glance at the Academy's silhouette in the distance. He knew what True Cross Town looked like from up there. Knew that the halls at the summit were indeed lined with gold and treasures. Kids' rhymes are funny sometimes. Full of things you don't pay real attention to until you're grown up.

The South was famed for its food markets. Just walking down the central market street had you feeling like you'd eaten a five-course meal, with all the delicious smells that beckoned from the diners and delis. It was a nice part of True Cross Town. Not the richest, but not the poorest: a bustling district, the one were you'd find tiny shops that had been in the same family for five generations or more, and still more families living all around the market street.

They were a small assembly of aspiring converts: three, to be exact. He mistook Mrs. Yamada and Mrs. Tsubura for childhood friends, at first: both were in their mid-forties, both dressed and talked the same, and they seemed to have the same hobbies. It turned out they'd never met before they joined the Gospel classes at the monastery, but since they were essentially the same being split in two bodies they treated each other like long lost sisters. It was fascinating, and just a little bit scary.

There quickly developed a cordial kind of disinterest between them and Shiro, as the age gap and lack of mutual reference points made their interactions too much like a mother asking her son about what he did in school today. Yamada and Tsubura had soon made it a habit to accompany each other to and from the Gospel school, while Shiro made it a habit to linger a while longer and talk some more with Father Hayashi.

Ah, yes. Hayashi. The old abbot in charge of the monastery was a man held together by sinews and faith – and possibly the knowledge that if he passed away, nobody would have the expertise to care for his beloved orchids. They occupied every window in the counselling room – except the ones with too much sun, that didn't agree with them at all, had to avoid too much direct sun – and Hayashi was already busy tending to them when Shiro found him.

"Staying behind today again, Fujiwara-kun?"

"The name's Fujimoto, Hayashi-sama." Fujiwara, he'd learnt, was the monk that was in charge of cooking for the monastery's inhabitants. "I have Thursday afternoons off", thanks to a certain someone in charge of schedules, "so, if I'm not bothering you…?"

"I'm your sponsor, Fujimoto-kun: I'm here for you to bother with anything that concerns faith and Catholic life", Hayashi reminded him while gingerly wiping an orchid's leaves with wet cloth. "That's all I'm good for, I reckon", he added with a sideways smile. "What young people do today and what young people did in my day are worlds apart. Was there something on your mind?"

"I was wondering…" Here we go, be a convincing candidate. "If God is good, and all-powerful: why is there so much evil in the world?"

"That's a question all humans pose to themselves at some point in life", Hayashi smiled. "The human heart is torn between good and evil, you see, and it's in our free will to choose which call to answer. God is all-powerful and infinitely good", he turned a pot so that the voluptuous, ultra-violet flowers faced away from the window and into the room, "and because He is infinitely good, He will not interfere with our free will to choose. Free will is the greatest gift God gave to man. Greatest gift of all."

"So humans decide to do evil things, and God just lets them?" That didn't sound like the best system. "Wouldn't it be more 'good' to interfere and keep us from harming each other?"

"Would it, really? If you take a moment to think about it", he dusted off his hands and proceeded to the next orchid, "would you want a life where all you could do was act according to a higher power's will?"

He hadn't meant that God should interfere in _everything_ , that would be- …whatever. Be a convincing candidate. That's all he had to do.

"I never thought of it like that… but… you're right." Rule of duality? Yeah, he could run the rule of duality. That and free will – that would look good. "If we're not given the option of doing wrong, we can't do what's right", he pondered aloud. "That's what free will is all about. If we can only do what God thinks is right, we're not doing what's right at all; we're just puppets doing the only thing our strings allow us to do." …bonus points for personal experience? " _Use what you got. It's not like it doesn't fit the subject._ "

"That is one way of putting it, I suppose. No one can claim to be truly righteous if there is only the right option to choose – is that what you mean to say…?"

He nodded. Right and wrong: simple words, ones that inhabit in every language known to man. Simple, but nonetheless deceptive. One man's right is another man's wrong, no? So if right isn't always right, and wrong not always wrong… how do you know?

"If… you did something", Shiro ventured, rolling his unlit cigarette idly between his fingers, "and you intended to do good but things turned out bad: did you do a good or a bad thing?"

"Very good question, Fujimoto-kun, very good question!" He didn't know how old Father Hayashi was, but old enough to repeat things twice and forget that everyone's hearing wasn't as poor as his own. "There's three things that determine if an act is good or bad: the object the act concerns, the circumstances surrounding the act, and the… the intentions behind the act. And, of course, the object the act concerns. If one of these three is morally evil, then the act itself is morally evil. Are you planning on lighting that?"

"What? No – force of habit. Sorry", he excused, and added something reminiscent of a smile for good measure. "Am I getting you right if I think that good intentions and special circumstances don't matter, if the act itself is considered evil?"

"That's it, Fujiwara-kun. No matter how good intentions one has, such as stealing to feed the poor, an act like stealing is always a sin by God's law."

Come on, there _had_ to be mitigating circumstances! Regret, repent; wasn't that what the Church taught? Repent and the Lord will forgive? There were _always_ exceptions to _every_ rule, with the right circumstances!

"Say you _thought_ you were doing the right thing", he postulated, admiring the old, dark book cabinets in the room without really seeing them. "You were helping someone with some minor task that didn't seem at all harmful, and you just wanted to be a good friend, and then it turns out that small task you were helping with was part of something much bigger that was downright horrible?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, Fujiwara-kun! It seems I didn't grasp your question correctly. I'm getting old, I suppose. You see, there are three things that determine if an act is good or bad." Shiro was about to inform him that he'd explained that already, but halted at the abbot's next words: "But before that, there are two requirements that must be met if an act is to be judged as good or evil in the first place. It must be performed out of free will, and with full knowledge of what one is doing. Now, if you were just helping a friend, and didn't know that friend was intending to do evil things, then your action cannot be judged by moral law."

It could have been the afternoon sun crouching down to peek in through the windows, but the room suddenly felt a bit… Yeah, that was probably it. Autumn sun through the window. Didn't Hayashi sometimes complain that his study was too bright for orchids?

"Uh, another thing I've meant to ask…" Shiro resumed distractedly. "Why are there demons?" Noticing the surprise on Hayashi's face, he decided on a recap in case the old man had forgotten: "I'm in exorcist cram school, as you know. I know demons are real. I know Satan is real. What I don't get is why. Why create something like that? Why would anyone want that in his creation?"

Mixing honest interest with feigned was a sure way of seeming more authentic, just like twisting truth was a more convincing way of misleading than telling downright lies. Samael was a good teacher. In the worst sense of the term.

"Has Igarashi-sama touched upon the subject of angels in your schooling?" asked the abbot, and gingerly tied another supporting hoop around a stem heavy with bright yellow and cerise flowers.

"Angels are God's servants and messengers, and one of them was supposedly a bad apple and rebelled", he summarised. "What I don't get is that we have demons around us all the time, every day – and you never once see any angels. Why all the demons and no angels? How can we know that angels exist, and that Satan used to be one?"

"Through God."

The old abbot had a grandfather smile. The kind of smile that has friendliness pouring in torrents from every wizened wrinkle it puts in the skin; the kind that makes you love wrinkles, 'cause they're like visual happiness. He motioned him to take a seat at the table, and seated himself on the opposite side.

"The Holy Bible is how He tells us about our origins and our future, and about the other inhabitants of the world we live in", he explained, in a voice as thin and crinkly as himself. "Some angels rebelled against God, before the Great Flood purged the world, and as punishment they were cast out of heaven and became demons: and their leader was Satan, who was the most powerful of them. So you see, the existence of demons in itself is proof of the existence of angels, even though we see far less of them. _Why_ we see more of one and less of the other", he turned his palms up on the table in a gesture of excuse, "only God knows."

There were times when God bore an eerie resemblance with a demon. The whole knowing-everything-but-acting-mysterious-and-testing-you-without-telling-you behaviour was a description that would fit just as well for Samael.

That wasn't something he said to Father Hayashi, of course. Instead, he rested his elbows on the table where he sat, and rested his chin on his clasped hands.

"I still don't see why the rebellious angels were allowed to remain. God must've known they would only make matters worse on earth: there must have been some _reason_ he kept them, and let the angels play a more secondary role."

"Ah: you seek purpose", Hayashi smiled warmly. "That's good, that's good. See this flower?"

Yes. _Dracula chimaera_. Rare species of orchid. Native to the Andes. Hayashi told him every time he stayed after Gospel school. The flower itself was a mottled red and white with loads of weird hairs sticking out, and only three petals: why the abbot liked that mutated splatter of dog vomit better than his other orchids was beyond Shiro.

"God created this flower with just the right smell to attract bees; and bees He created to be drawn to the smell of this flower. Bees have hairs on their hind legs for the sole purpose of carrying pollen away from this flower; and this flower has pollen created specifically to stick in the hairs of bees. You see? Everything fits together", he confided softly. "Every little thing in God's creation fits together with the whole, in the great weft that we're all part of. Subconsciously, we know this."

Father Hayashi's wizened fingers tapped lightly at the cassock's heavy fabric, above the heart.

"That is why, all our lives, we seek meaning. When we see every day how everything fits perfectly together like this, we assume there must be some higher purpose behind it all: and that purpose is God. When we feel our hearts longing for meaning, they are responding to the Lord's call. He is the meaning and the truth, and in accepting Him into our lives we find our place in the great whole of His creation; just like the bee was created to seek the smell of the flower, we were created with a desire to seek God. In Him, our hearts find their purpose, and our souls their peace."

He could have scoffed at it all. Not only is it frustrating to get an answer to a question you didn't ask, but higher purpose? Shiro had never been the kind to think there was such a thing. Not for individual humans, and not for humanity as a whole. That everything in the world connected perfectly was a result of evolution, if you asked him.

But he couldn't deny that Father Hayashi did seem at peace. It was something Shiro had noticed the very first time he met him. There was a _something_ around him – around everyone at the monastery – that he could only describe as the opposite of the sensation demons gave off. Demons were chaos, desire, impulse; this was... stability. The presence of someone who simply was... at peace.

Because God had shone his light on them? Because belief gave them strength, whether or not the God they believed in actually existed?

"May I ask you something, Fujiwara-kun?"

"Fujimoto", he corrected reflexively, and nodded to indicate that he may.

"My bad: Fujimoto-kun." Hayashi's runny old eyes settled on something slightly above Shiro. "Pardon if I'm too intrusive, but is that really your natural hair…?"

Shiro's hand went to his hair, an automated motion, as if he wasn't sure either.

"Yeah. Bad genes, early greying."

"The Lord works in mysterious ways", he chuckled. "It's the most awful thing to say, isn't it? That we have no way of telling what God intends, and that what happens to us might be part of a greater plan, but it might as well be chance?" He shook his head, still wearing his grandfatherly smile. "Would you like to stay for dinner, Fujimoto-kun?"

"Huh?"

"It's my task as sponsor to show you the ropes of Christian life, isn't it? And you have more questions on your mind, I'm sure. Would you like to join us…?"

"Yeah, that'd be really nice of you."

_The sponsor I've secured for you is a trusting old soul; it won't be hard to convince him that your intentions are sincere._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **The perfect mutualism/parasitism** between the world's organisms is used in the Roman Catholic Catechism as evidence of the intelligent design by a supreme divine entity, so even though the flower-and-bee simile is pretty lame I thought something like that would fit.
> 
> **Playing with the layout of True Cross Academy Campus Town**  
>  Which is the full name that I usually shorten down, because a) it's too damn long and b) seriously, all that was built because of the establishment of the academy? 0.o Well, it makes Mephisto fit better into the role of emperor… Anyway, it struck me that the layout of the town, with the districts named after the four compass points, allows for a fun parallel to **the shitennou** , the four heavenly kings that represent the compass points in Japanese Buddhist tradition; and the fifth compass point, the centre, would of course be represented by the Academy itself.
> 
> **Jikokuten** rules the East, representing spring, water, strength, and the colour blue.  
>  **Zōchōten** rules the South, representing summer, fire, prosperity, and the colour red.  
>  **Kōmokuten** is the Lord of Limitless Vision (with a third, all-seeing eye) and rules the West, representing autumn, metal, awareness, and the colour white.  
>  **Tamonten** rules the North, representing winter, earth, wealth, and the colour black. (The fifth district of True Cross North is the low-income one shown right before the Impure King arc, so I thought that, well: maybe there's wealth in the North, but not for everyone.)  
>  **Taishakuten (帝釈天)** is the Lord of the Center, and rules over the four kings from his "second heaven", which is situated at the top of a mountain... 天 is fun, because it's the same kanji that's used in the Japanese rendition of "Samael": 砂漏天. 天 means either sky, heavens, or emperor.
> 
> And a tiny nod to dear old Wu Cheng'en.


	65. Memento

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep saying this, but folks? This is a secondary account of mine. =P If you want updates as soon as they come the main account is on fanfiction.net. Same pen name, same story name. There's currently 85 chapters of Inferno there.
> 
> / Dimwit

It's not the lies.

It's not the secrets.

It's the silence.

The silence that tears the screams out of your chest, with claws of betrayal and broken glass.

* * *

"Language shapes thought; thought shapes humans; humans shape society - and society, in turn, plays a part in the shaping of language. The very fundament of human existence, therefore, is mastery of language."

It took a few Italian classes for him to realise that Samael wasn't acting. That he wasn't faking that smile in some messed-up attempt to keep the puppet show running. That he wasn't faking… at all.

"...me li as... as-ci-u-go aru sole e magari divent... diventano turoppo chiari." Fuck. His tongue was cramping.

"Again. Feel the placement of your tongue, the setting of your jaw: keep the apex against the alveolar ridge, as in the picture."

Jumbled words. Puppets without strings. Shiro stared through the crayon illustration, wondering why it didn't just catch fire. Garish doodles that didn't make one shit of sense. Like Samael.

Not a word about his betrayal. Not a single hint of gloat. No _Schadenfreude_ , as the Germans had so accurately named it: glee over another's injury.

He would have preferred that. If the damn fuckhead was gonna be a demon, he could at least act like one. Make a show of it, _relish_ in it; show how fucking pleased he was with himself.

But Samael neither hid nor flaunted his victory. As if it didn't matter. As if it was just another chore ticked off the list, just another document signed and stacked on his desk.

He wasn't even pretending.

He simply didn't care.

"Buongiorno , signora Raccagni", the demon spoke with flawless accent, barely even looked at the course book over his magazine. "Venga, venga...ecco si seda qui. Come va?"

"Niente male, gurazie. Andura... and _rà_ ancora me... me-gli-o con i caperi in orudine. Shtavo... sta-vo-lu-ta me il taglia-"

"Me li taglia."

"Me _li_ taglia... anche un pó?"

After all he'd done.

"Glieli spunto soltanto?"

Played him like one of his goddamn toys.

"No, no, me li shcali un po... chino, peruché cosí non mi pi... pi-achiono-"

"Piacciono."

"Mi piacciono più. Po-i dobu... _dov_ rei, fare anche il corore, vede?"

And it hadn't even been amusing enough to gloat over?

" _I was so fucking stupid._ "

Stupidity doesn't count among the cardinal sins, but it should. It fucking should. Because it's just as harmful, just as irresponsible, and just as easy to indulge in. Walk the simple path. Make the simple choice. Choosing without thinking.

The silence never left; no matter if he rehearsed Italian until his tongue went numb, it was there between the lines. The unspoken things that polluted the air in the tower. Taut. Quivering, vibrating, _begging_ to snap; cut bleeding gashes in the air, steel strings leaping of the shrieking neck of a burning violin.

_at least have the decency to show my destruction was more than an idle pastime_

But it kept playing. Tuneless disharmony. Screeching silence. Unsaid words grating nails – _purple claws_ – over his eardrums.

Samael knew it, oh yes, he knew. Knew aaall the strings to pull, all the buttons to push. He knew Shiro hated the silence more than anything. He knew Shiro refused to let him have the pleasure of knowing how much it hurt.

He knew perfectly well that the daggers of betrayal strike deeper the closer you are; slow daggers, slipping in between the ribs through charming smiles, not noticed until they strike the heart.

And there he sat, in his fucking Renaissance chair, reading his fucking shoujo manga, and waited in silence for an outburst that would never come.

"Hmm~ getting better, albeit slowly. It will come easier once your mouth is accustomed to the sounds", hummed the demon in chipper tones from behind the magazine pages. "What the mind forgets, the body remembers forever~"

"Coming from a guy who doesn't even have a body." No. Don't rise to taunts. Shut his mouth, shut his ears: focus on the never-ending page 29.

"Letting emotion get in the way of your thinking again?" came an amused remark, followed by a light tap on his head from the pointer.

" _Ignore it._ " And wish him to hell.

"A very bad habit for an exorcist, Shiro - and an insult to your intellect, at that. I've had many bodies, and each one remembered." Samael splayed his fingers over the scrawny chest of Faust's body, and brought his voice into that _pompous_ cadence of his: "The rich phonemes of German, engraved forever in muscle memory, roll off its tongue as easily as they did when this body belonged to Johann: and like Johann, it has no fondness of pomegranates."

" _Ignore it._ " He had a favourite daydream for occasions like these: that he had let Tanzi's spies finish their work in Deep Keep. That Samael was staggering, falling, writhing on the ground in a puddle of blood and miasma.

"I used to like pomegranates, when I had a Greek body", Samael reminisced conversationally into his magazine. Why care if his student listened, when he never cared about him at all? "Possessing someone is a curious thing – like moving into a house with the former owner's possessions still in place, I suppose. Each one still furnished with all manner of quirks and routines acquired throughout life; the body remembers, long after the mind forgets."

The body of just another puppet. ...just another puppet? Then why did he-

" _Ignore him, dammit. Don't listen to a demon._ " Demons deceive. Demons lie.

What the fuck do you make of it when two demons' lies contradict each other, then?

One had to be lying, either Samael or the demon that had tried to possess him in his dorm room. That demon had had every reason to twist the truth to make him surrender; Samael didn't have to. He already had him collared and bound. Like Faust.

Like Faust? Tch, he should stop kidding himself.

That wasn't just a puppet. That body was a living, breathing memento of Johann Faust, hardwired with his habits and tastes before and beyond the departure of his soul.

_You were quite fond of your old friend, weren't you? Fond enough to bind yourself to him for twenty-four years, and hold on to his body and his mother tongue four centuries after your contract expired. You'd hate to lose a memento like that._

Shiro stared down at the Latin letters in his course book. Samael might be droning on for all he knew: his own world was a quiet thunderstorm, glowing with embers that refused to die but lacked the strength to build into flame.

" _He was your friend._ " A bitter thought. A thought of someone who had no delusions left to kid himself with. " _I'm just another puppet._ "

Don't let emotion get in the way of thinking?

Yeah.

Demons didn't have that problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Phoneme** – let's try a dangerous allegory here. Dangerous because there's a high risk of misunderstandings occurring. But you're not linguistics students, so having a general idea works fine for you; and if you are linguistics students, you don't need any explanation. :)
> 
> You know how letters form words, yes? C + l + a +s + s = class. And you all know what a class is. Now switch c for a g, and you get glass: just one letter changed, and a different word with a different meaning.
> 
> Spoken language works the same, you could say: it's built up of small units of sound that can be strung together into meaningful words. Instead of letters, they're called phonemes. Switch one phoneme for another and you can (but not necessarily) get a different word with different meaning. You could think of a language as having two alphabets: one made of letters, and one made of phonemes. Some letters in language A may not exist in language B, and some phonemes used in A may not exist in B either.
> 
> It's important to remember that letters and phonemes don't correspond to one another, though. Ash contains three letters (a-s-h) but only two phonemes (a-sh). S and h just happen to be the two letters we combine when we want to represent the phoneme "sh" in English.
> 
>  **Italian dialogue**  
> ...you really don't have to think too much about what they're saying. Shiro's pronunciation is terrible, for one thing, and they're roleplaying two ladies talking about haircuts.


	66. Warmth in monochrome seasons

August passed, burning the Academy complex on forested pyres. September-October turned gold to blood and put fruits on every branch. November glazed the stone walls with chilling rain that chased the birds southward, before the season started snarling around the buildings, sharp gusts clawing the wizening flesh from wooden skeletons. By the by, humidity festered grey on towering structures. Strangled the sap in tree trunks. Shrouded Japan for her burial in the numbing winter white.

Days grew shorter, hours gasping out wispy breaths as they hurried from one chilled dark night to another.

Words grew scarcer. Rusted from days of disuse. Rotted with the fallen leaves.

Sometimes, he didn't recognise his own voice.

Sometimes, he wondered if people would hear him even if he spoke.

* * *

Life squared. Straight lines of routine between four dots of bus stops: Samael, Southern Cross monastery, desk, Moriyama. Round and round. Jump on the ride and it'll take you there, no detour thoughts for misery to catch up on. Straight lines. Straight lines and enough work to keep his brain attached to them.

Manners are awful fucking things.

Samael didn't give a shit how he felt. Father Hayashi didn't know how he felt. Moriyama _knew_ – and politely bought his lies when he said he was fine.

Fucking incredible. That people still trust the words from your mouth when all the rest of you is screaming.

* * *

"This will be the last class for the season, I'm afraid." Moriyama Mayu thumbed a tiny, cloth-wrapped bundle. Her cheeks were like autumn apples, plump and faintly blushing in the spicy scent of the supply shop. "So I wanted you to have this." She offered the bundle to him on hard-worked palms. "It's a little early, I know, but nature has her own schedule. With some luck, you might even get to see them sprout before you leave."

The little exorcist supply shop was in business year around, but with winter whistling at the doorstep the growing of herbs was no longer part of the daily work. Shiro had been assisting all semester – learning how to grow them, when to reap them, how to preserve them – and learning their uses for exorcism and healing. Everything from common basil to sandalwood could be used to ward off demons, and there were hundreds more to be used to treat poisoning and ailments in humans. Some plants were made into incenses, some were distilled to be drunk or sprinkled over the ground as tinctures; some were living sentinels, planted like a wall around the house.

…and then there was the warden tree.

Shiro had never heard of a tradition like that before he was apprenticed by Moriyama-san. In her labyrinthine gardens there was an old linden tree, which was part of the garden and yet not. It should be watered and cared for, like all the other plants; but it should never be pruned, or robbed of a single leaf. It grew in majestic solitude in a clearing, rearing its crown up on a trunk so massive it seemed to delve down through the ground like a drill head, through the stone pillars the supply shop rested on, in search of the earth below.

The linden tree had been planted when her great-great-grandmother established herself at the Academy, Moriyama-san had told him. For fortune, and for protection. Each living thing had a spirit, and that tree was the embodiment of the spirit that guarded the house and the Moriyama family. Her great-great-grandmother lay buried underneath it, as did all the descendants that had continued her service as the Academy's supplier of herbs and goods. Shiro had seen Moriyama-san go to pay her respects to her ancestors, once, and seen her honour the warden tree before she washed the graves.

…and he stared, in blank silence, at the handful of browning seeds that had been hidden in the cloth she gave him.

"If you plant them before the end of November, you'll see them sprout in spring", she smiled softly, fingers still fidgeting with cloth they no longer held. "Or you can dry them, and they'll be good for planting at least three years from now."

"Moriyama-san, these are from-"

"Yes." She cupped his hands and brought them together, wrapping up the seeds once more. "She has protected my family for many a spring and fall, so I'm sure she'll do the same for you."

She hesitated, he could tell. Hesitated, because what he had shown her was that he wouldn't acknowledge things for what they were, and she didn't want to make him feel awkward. So she bought his lies and joined in his silence, pretending that things were normal when they weren't. Worry had worn her smile, waning like the sun as the days of frost approached, but it still shone with warmth that almost thawed the disconnection he had sought to drown in.

"Winter is always hard", she told him softly, casting her waning smile down on their hands. "Sometimes I think the plants only make it through because they know there will be spring."

She brushed his hands gently with her thumbs – big, smooth hands in old, calloused ones. Warm, steady hands that nurtured, protected; loved. They let go of his, and gently pulled him into an embrace.

Humans adapt; that's how they survive. One can survive on rice for weeks, and it will keep you alive. The body adapts. The tongue forgets what other tastes there are. It will still remember, with voracious clarity, how good real food tastes when it's put before you. How real nourishment pours warmth and bliss throughout the body.

Shiro's eyelids shut out the world. The embrace soaked into him, saturated his every fibre with warmth - human warmth, worlds apart from warm clothes or warm radiators. The body always remembers: no matter how long it is starved of contact, it remembers what it's like to be held close.

Moriyama-san's hair tickled his nose as he leaned into her warmth. It smelled of earth and pottery. He couldn't remember what his own mother's hair had smelt like, but he wished it had been earth and pottery.

"Thanks, Moriyama-san." It's human nature, that longing to feel. To touch. To be close. Nothing is lovelier, and nothing is more dangerous. "I'll plant them right away."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warden trees** are an Old Norse custom, which you can still find alive here and there. These trees – often elm, ash, or linden – were highly revered and loved, so that sometimes the families tending to them would take their name from them. You all know Carl Linnaeus, right? His surname (Linné) is from the warden tree, a linden, which grew in his parents' homestead.


	67. If you hear me

_…hi._

_I'm supposed to practise calling upon you in prayer. If you exist._

_I don't know which would be worse, honestly. If you did exist and heard me, or didn't and I was just talking to myself in my head._

_I kinda wish you did hear me. I haven't got much other people to talk to – I'm sure you know why. And even with free will and all that, I'd appreciate if you did step in sometimes and stopped us from doing stupid things. Wouldn't be as fun, I suppose, but…_

_I keep thinking it makes you a bit like Samael. Sorry 'bout that._

_…does it ever go away? Can feelings like these go away?_

_Sheesh, I'm supposed to be honest, right? Like some sort of confession?_

_Sometimes I wish I could just crawl out of my own skin. Shed everything and be reborn as someone else. Sometimes. Other times I wish I could turn back time and make it all undone. I don't know… I just don't… see how I could ever set this mess straight._

_…if they're there, could you tell them I'm sorry? Agari-chan and Katsu-san and- …you know which ones. Tell them I'm… so fucking sorry. I'd swap with them, if that were possible – hell, I'd… I just wish I could change everything._

_I don't know how to repent more. I don't know what to do. If you're God and all, I hope you can just scan me like a barcode on a bottle of ice tea and know what I mean, 'cause I can't put words on it. It's too damn big. It's like I'm gonna explode, only I never do. I keep doing these meditation exercises Sen-chan taught me, but I think I build up tension faster than I can get rid of it._

_I get what she meant with emotion rotting inside. That's exactly how it feels._

_I wish things were different. If I could have_ one _wish in the world, I'd wish I never ran down to Deep Keep._

_Dreams and wishes get the plants through winter, if you believe Moriyama-san._

_…I'm gonna miss her, aren't I?_

_Will she miss me…?_

_If you hear this, God, I've got some advice for you: make more women like her. Especially women that are gonna have kids._

_I'm just babbling random stuff now. Might as well get started on the homework instead._


	68. goD Dog

Shirt and suit. As if the thought of this charade didn't make him uncomfortable enough.

They were paraded up the aisle, closed in by staring walls of wood and flesh. All the parish was there, expectant to see the new lambs take their first stumbling steps towards membership in their flock. Christ himself had his eyes on them, it seemed, where he gazed miserably down at them from the crucifix on the altar. The three candidates stepped aside once at the front, as they had rehearsed with Father Igarashi. The priest himself sent them a reassuring smile, to which they all smiled back gratefully. Greetings were made, presentations of the events at hand were voiced; and the ceremony began.

He listened to Yamada and Tsubura state their names. Answer Father Igarashi's questions. It was just words. Words received and words given in exchange. Like paying for goods. Paying for the opinions you wanted to hear.

You'd think it gets easier to lie with time. It does. Just not always.

"What is your name?"

Simple question, simple answer.

"Fujimoto Shiro."

"What do you ask of the Church of God?"

Nothing. Only that it would be the cloak to go with his dagger.

"Guidance, to become worthy of god's mercy."

"God gives light to everyone who comes into this world; though unseen, he reveals himself through the works of his hand, so that all people may learn to give thanks to their Creator. You have followed God's light and the way of the Gospel now lies open before you. Set your feet firmly on that path and acknowledge the living God, who truly speaks to everyone. Walk in the light of Christ and learn to trust in his wisdom. Commit your lives daily to his care, so that you may come to believe in him with all your heart. This is the way of faith along which Christ will lead you in love toward eternal life. Are you prepared to begin this journey today under the guidance of Christ?"

"I am."

Prepared to walk the path of salvation on a devil's orders: if he wasn't struck down by lightning now, there was no god.

Igarashi turned to the assembled parishioners next. No show without audience. Row upon row of faces in the pews, some he knew and some he didn't. He fixed his gaze far beyond them, far beyond the attentive eyes, off in another world. He wasn't here, wasn't lying his tongue black in front of all these people who were looking at him like...

" _Don't look at me like that._ "

"Sponsors, you now present these candidates to us", Igarashi addressed them loudly, making sure that even the elderly in the back rows could hear. "Are you, and all who are gathered with us, ready to help these candidates find and follow Christ?"

"We are", the audience replied.

" _Don't look at me like that._ " Hayashi's warm smile burnt his conscience.

Proud. The old abbot was proud of him.

Shiro heard the priest's droning chant in the distance behind the globes of his eyes. Words on lucid waves, rippling audio mirages. Words of mercy, praise, blessing. Words for those called by the lord.

Wolf in sheep's clothing.

"It's going well, Fujimoto-kun."

Shiro jerked back into the realms of consciousness. The old abbot was beside him, suddenly, as were Yamada's and Tsubura's sponsors with them.

"No need to be tense, hm? It's rather _I_ who should be tense: I could forget in which order to bless your senses."

Shiro nodded. Like a good puppet. Nodded, smiled, and waited for lightning that might still come. Waited for all this to be over.

"Fujimoto, receive the cross on your forehead. It is Christ himself who now strengthens you with this sign of his love. Learn to know him and follow him."

Nothing happened when Igarashi's thick, fleshy thumb touched his forehead. Nothing happened when the sign of Christ's infinite love was traced on his skin.

Pff - what had he expected, really? Divine intervention? It was just words. Compressions of dead air.

"Receive the sign of the cross on your ears, that you may hear the voice of the Lord", Hayashi's thin, old voice accompanied the tracing of the cross.

"Glory and praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ!" the spacious hall echoed back to the parishioners.

Strange, to imagine that this ceremony actually meant something to them.

"Receive the sign of the cross on your eyes, that you may see the glory of God."

"Glory and praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ!"

Did they really feel a holy presence there…? Or were they just pretending? Proving they had a place among God's chosen?

"Receive the sign of the cross on your lips, that you may respond to the word of God."

"Glory and praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ!"

_Every_ time…?

"Receive the sign of the cross over your heart, that Christ may dwell there by faith."

Go ahead, invite the whole damn Christian pantheon – maybe Satan wouldn't get in if it was too crowded?

"Glory and praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ!"

Couldn't they just shut up?

"Receive the sign of the cross on your shoulders, that you may bear the gentle yoke of Christ."

"Glory and praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ!"

Go ahead and bless all of his body at once, that would be easier and _could they really not just shut up?  
_

"Receive the sign of the cross on your hands, that Christ may be known in the work which you do."

His lips twitched humourlessly. Wonder what they'd do if he laughed? If he shouted? If he tore the chalice from the altar and knocked the cross to the floor? 'That Christ may be known in the work which you do'.

"Glory and praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ!"

He didn't even know if he was hearing them anymore, or if the echo kept ricochetting back and forth inside his skull.

"Receive the sign of the cross on your feet, that you may walk in the way of Christ."

His lips twitched again; some demented spasm from parts of him kept securely under lock and key-

_The word can be forged into the key for any lock, or chains that no key can loosen._

-honest, better parts that flung themselves at padded iron walls.

"I sign you with the sign of eternal life in the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit." ****  
  
"Amen", he breathed alongside the other candidates, now catechumens.

Regular Mass followed, where the catechumens were asked to embrace the Word; embrace God, embrace Christ, embrace the way of Christian life. Embrace, embrace, like one big happy family, and then be sent away before the cannibal feast on the Almighty Father's flesh and blood.

He did. Threw himself into the arms of the Word, with all the unhinged enthusiasm of a man throwing himself off a building. He knew which "god" held mastery over the word. He knew which "god" he had committed himself to.

No lamb. No wolf. Just a collared dog.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Evangelisation and Pre-catechumenate**
> 
> Sounds like Greek? It is. Evangelion means "good news", and katekhein means "to instruct orally" (katekhoumenos – "being instructed"). We see Shiro being accepted as a catechumen here, but before you're eligible for that you need to go through a period of introduction to the concept of God and Christian faith. That takes about 8-12 weeks, so count from early August to start of October here.
> 
> Outside the pure formalities, you need to show that you're serious about this. You need to show the first seeds of faith, repentance, understanding of the Church, and a profound desire to know and follow Christ: otherwise you won't be permitted as a catechumen. I fast-forwarded past most of that, because I lack the motivation/experience/sources to write 12 weeks of Gospel education. =u=' I'm sure it would've been boring as hell to read, too.
> 
> Still, I will try to drop some line here and there about Shiro's spiritual foxtrot, because he is in a position where he makes a fine battleground for belief and doubt.


	69. Getting under your skin?

It's so easy, once you detach. When past happiness fades like a dream, and the future was repeated yesterday. Doesn't matter. Nothing does. What happens around you doesn't concern you. What happens to you barely concerns you. Each night is the goal line you never reach; each day you rise from the grave to start another disconnected marathon. Breathe and move, that's all it is. Do that and you'll be fine. Breathe and move and you're technically alive - that's all they need to know. By the by, that replaces any goal you had. Days mass-produce. Life becomes a monotone routine, safe and steady like tank treads that go straight ahead and loop, loop, loop their tracks around your thoughts and cut them up in minimum functional slabs.

It felt almost appropriate to get a mission at a mental hospital.

Metal doors. No windows. Naked concrete corridors without heating. A hospital…? Or a prison?

"Matsuri-san? Thank you for coming." Male. Doctor coat. Nasal voice. "I'm Katou Hideki. This way, please."

More corridors. More doors. Locks. Lock them all away, the broken things no one wants to see. Still fans, like giant spiders hanging from the ceiling. A hospital for mentally ill patients, or one for making patients mentally ill?

"The patient in question has been examined by several doctors already, and found to be physically perfectly healthy despite not being so. She eats and drinks like normal, but for some reason she grows weaker and weaker – we're at our wits' end, to be honest. Her condition was put down to hallucinati-" Coughing. Embarrassed professionalism. "To hallucinations – excuse me, I seem to have come down with a bit of a cold. Yes, hallucinations: and no psychopharmaca seem to alleviate them."

Elevator. Key required for operation. Security measures.

"The patient insists that what she has is jinmensou, and that the wound only opens up and speaks when nobody is around to see it. It's close at hand to pass it off as superstition fuelled by mental instability, of course, but-" More coughing. Handkerchief. Shallow, rattling breath. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I hope you don't catch it because of me. Now, this is the ward the patient lives in - if you follow me, please…"

It wasn't the patients that were ill. It was the hospital. Shivering through concrete veins, blubbering to itself under the echoes of footsteps on naked walls: demons marinating in depression and distress. This was their version of a buffet.

Detach. It didn't matter. Get the job done.

"Normally, it would be called hallucinations, but I have friends who have been in contact one way or the other with the knights of the True Cross. Jinmensou is held by tradition to be a demonic disease, so I convinced the board to at least let you see the patient. Perhaps you can diagnose her in ways we can't. I- Ah, have you been informed of my request? As a fellow doctor, I would be very interested to see this for myself – if possible, of course."

"You may not be able to see the demons themselves, but you might be able to observe some physical anomalies occurring while we treat the patient", Matsuri-sensei informed. "Jinmensou is not a disease, per definition; it's a parasitic insect demon whose larvae produce miasmic cytokines that induce abnormal growth in the basal layer of the epithelium. It's sentient cancer, essentially, where the larvae act like a primitive brain through sophisticated quorum sensing. It kills the host if left untreated, whereafter the larvae metamorphose into nymph state and emerge to mate and lay new eggs. You don't need to know the exact timeline of this life cycle on the exam in May", she told the students over her shoulder. "Only the progression of the symptoms of infection. Is this…?"

"This is the room, yes. What you say sounds highly interesting, Matsuri-san. Would you mind telling me more about this after- *cough* I'm sorry: after you have seen the patient?" Rattling keys, and the smooth clicks of a well maintained lock. "Itou-san? Hello. How are you feeling today?"

Starved. Starved for food, starved for the sky locked away behind iron bars covering the window.

Windows never look so tempting as they do when barred. The free fall outside them clenches so tangibly in the gut. Strange, isn't it? That fear and excitement share similar symptoms.

The room was small, naked: carefully disinfected of everything that promised cutting and stabbing. And Itou stared at them, all bird bones and dried-out IV tears merged with sheets in a sickbed.

"It says I'm going to die, doctor." Hollow eyes. Eggshells framed in sleepless sockets. "I'm going to die soon, and then I will become a dragonfly." A twitch in her pale lips. She knew nobody believed her. Half of her had stopped believing her, too.

"I will not let that happen, Itou-san", Katou ensured. Velvet voice. Force-fed reassurance. "I've brought a different kind of doctor to look at you."

Doubt. Resignation. That was all response Matsuri-sensei's presence drew from Itou's eyes. She didn't want another doctor. She wanted an end.

"Matsuri-san is an exorcist", he explained patiently. "These are her students, Fujimoto-san and Yaonaru-san. They can treat jinmensou."

This time, Itou looked at Matsuri-sensei for real. At the black robes. At the red and blue of the exorcist badge on her chest.

"GET AWAY FROM ME!"

The change was so immediate and so complete that Kita and Shiro both flinched. From dying woman to panicked animal. Itou struggled, kicked, screamed: sharp rattles of metal punctuated her fit and bit into her wrists as she thrashed against the cuffs that held her to the hospital bed. Like a broken ragdoll shaken by a sadistic child. She shrieked at Katou, begged and screamed for him to take Matsuri away, not let her near, that she'd die if that woman touched her, that-

"It's been tapping into her nervous system!" Matsuri shouted over the outburst, hands pressed over her ears. "It's telling her things to protect itself! It's alright, Katou-san, it's a typical symptom of progressed jinmensou! Where does she say the wound is?!"

"On her right thigh! On the side! Please, Itou-san, you're hurting yourself! Matsuri-san only needs to look at you!"

No effect. Itou was too weak to cause harm, fortunately. Shiro and Kita each held one leg down by the ankle, while Matsuri-sensei peeled away the sheets and the hospital robe from the pasty skin. And the tape. And the bandage. If not restrained, it seemed Itou-san would try to remove the infection with her fingernails.

"Fujimoto-kun, I'll need your services as Aria! Do you know the verses to bring the wound to manifest itself?!"

He began to recite. Tuned the pleading and the screaming out. Centred himself to pour his concentration into the chant.

"You are the Lord, you alone; you have made heaven, the heaven of heavens, with all their host, the earth and all that is on it, the seas and all that is in them. To all of them you give life, and the host of heaven worships you…"

The cluttered flesh began to ooze. Contract. Muscles spasmed where there were no muscles, raw meat boiling like thick, congealed porridge; there was a wet, sucking sound, as of dragging out a boot stuck in mud… and the flesh split.

"Heeeaaaarshlaaaaahhhrr…!"

It wasn't human. It wasn't even a _face_ : it was a mouth, sore and cracked and hissing, studded with damp, fleshy nodes that could have been the buds of infant teeth. The edges of the wound twitched and seemed to form words, but produced only guttural noises. Boils rose up through the skin around it; milky, wiggling boils that looked like frog's eggs when-

" _Oh god, it's… Eyes…_ "

Staring, oozing, _convulsing_... eyes. They lay embedded in her leg, like squishy pearls, and gyrated blindly without lids or muscles. Next to him, Kita quelled a gag reflex.

"Good work, Fujimoto, keep reciting!" Matsuri-sensei did her best to hold Itou still without getting bit by her. "Yaonaru, you know how to treat jinmensou?!"

Kita merely nodded, not trusting what would come out of his mouth. _Fritillaria verticillata_. Shiro had helped Moriyama harvest the bulbs just weeks ago. They had dried them and ground them into a fine powder that Kita poured into the wound's mouth.

" _Too bad it didn't get your hand._ "

Because jinmensou tumours had a nasty habit of rising out of the flesh, in a dying effort to bite and transfer the parasites to a new host. Like jumping frogs.

Kita yelped, but the tumour missed and fell limp against Itou's thigh: a stretched, oozing sack of tissue that evaporated into miasma before their eyes. Within seconds, the infected flesh had rotted and fallen off, with a clear, healthy wound left behind.

Itou had finally fallen silent. Her chest rose and fell at shocked speed, fluttering in the silence, but she wasn't afraid anymore. Wasn't being eaten anymore.

"Much better, isn't it?" Matsuri-sensei murmured softly, soothing her with idle talk and gently rubbing hands. "You won't become a dragonfly now. It's gone. I'm just going to clean this for you and get you some new bandages, then we'll move you to a regular hospital to heal. How does that sound?"

Itou nodded; first once, as in trance, and then three rapid times that didn't remember the first.

"That's good. And this, we will burn." Matsuri scraped the clot of grey flesh into a black plastic bag brought for the purpose, careful to use medical gloves for the task. "It's standard procedure for leftovers of rot and insect demons."

* * *

Katou was greatly impressed. He wanted to know everything about demonic illnesses and parasites, or so it seemed, because Matsuri-sensei remained in his office for an eternity. And left her two students in the pale yellow corridor outside.

Shiro had nothing to say to Yaonaru Kita. He wouldn't mind if a bus ran him over, but didn't see the need to spend breath on telling him that.

"What is the appropriate thing to say to a conversion? Congratulations?"

It was likely a strategy for easing the tension, pairing them to work on a mission like this. Clearly conceived by somebody with no sense of strategy at all.

"I haven't converted yet. I do in April, if my faith is considered matured enough."

Kita did it on purpose, he was sure. Muffled the derisive snort, but only enough that it could still be heard.

"There's no need for us to pretend, is there? You convert for other reasons than faith."

"There is no reason to convert if it's not for faith", he replied flatly. Eyes on the office door. Lacquered wood around a tinted glass window. Let Kita prod and pry. He would have nothing to show for it.

"Ostensibly", he drawled. "You have also been taking classes in Italian." Sharp, intelligent eyes in his peripheral vision, scanning him for response. "You've been approved as an exchange student to one of the Papal Universities in Rome. Scampering off with your tail between your legs, Fujimoto?"

Pathetic. With Samael for teacher twice a week, no shitty amateur like Kita could put even a scratch on his composure.

"I know things, Fujimoto", he hissed. Threatening? Pff. "I find out things. I'm not stupid. There is a reason you're suddenly converting to Catholicism, just as there is a reason you're applying to study abroad – a reason you're still in the Order. Want me to spell that reason out for you? Me-phi-su-to Phe-les." Kita glared. Long and hard. "Oh what a good dog you are", he sneered when no reply came. "Such a loyal, obedient little lapdog. You won't tell me? Fine." Kita stepped in front of him, glowered down at him, tried to look intimidating. He did a fair enough job, actually. "But if you think you're getting away because you're sent to Rome, you're wrong. _Very_ wrong."

Shiro returned the stare in silence. He wouldn't have been Samael's dog if Kita and his brother hadn't given him a hand. How would that be for a retort? Stupid, was what it would be. It would only make Kita even more determined to break his resistance. Break his silence. Silence that chokes you nice and slow with secrets burning in your blood.

Kita's head angled, puzzlement creasing his brow. He wasn't glaring now. He was searching, studying...

"When did your eyes-?"

"Good work today, students", Matsuri-sensei announced. "Not torn each other's heads off yet?" Her eyes lingered on Shiro with the hint of a smile once Kita had stepped out of his face. "That means Ando-sensei owes me a dinner. Well done, both of you."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Jinmensou** is what I'd consider high-octane nightmare fuel. Face wound. It's like cancer, and it can friggin' think. X_X It's never said exactly what it looks like… but I went with ectoderm-derived tissues as the basis. Ectodermal cells are the precursors of the cells that constitute your skin (epithelium). Ectodermal cells also form the corona and lens of the eye, so… with a bit demonic meddling with gene expression in cells… you could grow eyes out of your skin. =S
> 
>  **Fritillaria verticillata** is the flower that supposedly kills jinmensou.
> 
>  **Quorum sensing** is a really cool system by which many microorganisms and some social species of insects communicate. On the microbiological level it's all about signals and receptors for said signals, but this allows even the most primitive organisms to "warn" each other of dangers like change of pH or immune cells, and coordinate their actions for the preservation of the colony. Theories suggest that it does, to a certain extent, function like a neural network not unlike a primitive brain.
> 
>  **Mental hospitals in Japan in the 70's** were apparently not very nice places to be. I didn't manage to find any pictures for reference, but a couple books that were fairly informative.


	70. Food is culture

Shiro had discussed right and wrong quite extensively with Father Hayashi over the weeks. Topics like "good and evil" and all its relatives had also been touched a few times. Hayashi was well aware that the headmaster of True Cross Academy was a demon. Each time that was mentioned, the old, heavy-lidded eyes grew surprisingly sharp, and opinion carved a clear set of kanji lines into the skin around his mouth. Yes, Hayashi was well aware that the headmaster of True Cross Academy was a demon; and philanthropic demons didn't exist.

Good and evil applied to humans, and only humans. Demons were God's antithesis: pure evil, with no concept of or ability to do good. Every act they performed, by virtue of their nature, was evil regardless of the act itself. Hayashi had been firmly convinced of that. Slaving away at a stove in Faust Mansion's spacious kitchen, Shiro saw no reason to disagree with the abbot's words.

"He says to hold the straws in a bundle and place them in the middle of the pot, then release them and let them fall evenly in all directions", Belial translated crisply.

Ukobach was a perfectionist. Someone like Samael only hired the best chef in existence, of course. The wooden spoon he carried around was alternately a conductor's baton, when he explained how to dice the eggplant so that the cubes became perfectly even, and alternately a drill sergeant's riding crop, when the outer leaves of an artichoke weren't removed the _exact_ right way.

* * *

_Food, is culture; it is the seductive tongue in which each society imparts its unique customs, history, flora and fauna. The dinner table is the battlefield of social life, where knowledge of a nation's culture decides the role of clown and that of king; where it is determined who is in the game, and who is out. You will be faced with customs very different from what you're used to in Italy, and a palette of food ingredients you aren't familiar with; and, as an ambassador of the Japanese Branch, it falls on you to represent us in a favourable, cultured manner. On that note, this ravioli was grossly overcooked. Good thing we started practising in time, isn't it?  
_

* * *

Twice a week, before every Italian class, Shiro was made to cook a three-course dinner. "Cultural hands-on practice". Before every such dinner-class, he had to change from school uniform to shirt and suit. "Acquiring a sense of professional Italian dress-code".

"Did you know?" he asked without inflection. Peeling plum tomatoes was nothing like peeling daikon radishes, but his fingers were slowly getting the hang of it. "That he was going to trick me?"

"His highness isn't fond of sharing, be that plans or valuables. No, Bocchan, I didn't."

Shiro kept peeling his tomatoes. Moist, plump flesh under a thin coating of waxy skin.

"Don't call me Bocchan, okay?"

Belial was Manners incarnate. Starched and pressed with etiquette, and a smile that was a mere crease between his lips. A different kind of façade than Samael's, but still a demon underneath; thin as it was, that smile was just enough a crack for his true nature to seep out.

"Fascinating", he said to Shiro's back.

"What?" He didn't need to see that smile to know it was there.

"All that emotion swirling underneath the surface of your composure. I can imagine what it is like for a cat to watch goldfish swim circles in a bowl, one thin glass barrier away."

Shiro smiled humourlessly into the steam that coated his glasses, when he tried the spaghetti with a fork to check if it was al dente yet.

"Too bad Samael isn't fond of sharing, huh?"

The pasta needed more time. Meanwhile, Ukobach indicated with his spoon that he ought to pay the chicken scallopine in the skillet some urgent attention.

"You need to turn it more often: no more than 3 minutes' browning on each side. As for aversion to sharing, that is the least inconvenient quality his highness possesses." If his lungs hadn't been as thoroughly starched as his shirt collar, he might have heaved a sigh. "However, underlings have to stand their superiors even when they are unreasonable."

Shiro wiped his hands on his apron, and set to turn the sage and cheese stuffed chicken rolls without compromising the toothpicks that held them together. Belial was okay. A demon, but also another poor bastard under Samael's rule. He had to see Samael every day, serve him food and drink every day, drive his car and keep his opinions to himself. Thinking of it that way, the cooking exercises were okay, too. It was only the dining part that wasn't.

"How did you get stuck with him, then?" Shiro glanced over at the butler's straight-backed form. "They don't teach anything about demons 'cept the best ways to kill you, so I don't know how stuff like employment works in Gehenna."

"The tomato sauce is about to burn", Belial enlightened over Ukobach's distressed chattering.

Shiro cursed under his breath, balanced the last scallopine on his spatula and reached over to hurriedly turn down the heat and pull the other skillet off the burner plate. They could have at least allowed him to cook one dish at a time… Ukobach wasn't happy with the sauce – he didn't need Belial's translations to get what the irate jumping up and down meant.

"Sorry, sorry." He let the remaining scallopine sputter down with the rest in the olive oil and garlic. "Doing two things at a time isn't easy."

"That is why we practise it. To get back to your question, Gehenna is not much different from Assiah, from what I understand. There are two ways to rise in rank: prove your power, or buy into someone else's." A crisp pause followed, the kind that might have contained body language in someone inclined to more overt forms of humour: "Both ways present their own hardships."

"I can imagine." Shiro measured up half a cup of white wine, all the while keeping an eye on the boiling spaghetti. Overcooking pasta was a downright sin in Italy, apparently. "So what does that mean, if you translate it to practical terms? You get paid for working here, or leeching off his status is the payment?"

"As you ought to be aware, Fujimoto-kun, demons deal in favours. I supply the Prince with services his highness wants, and his highness in turn supplies me with things I want. 'Leeching off his status', as you put it, is a bonus to my employment."

"Right." Remove chicken, discard garlic: add wine and simmer for two minutes while scraping brown bits from the skillet with a wooden spoon. Not Ukobach's. Nobody separated Ukobach from his spoon. "I've heard him mention rank pretty often when he speaks of Gehenna. Why's rank so important? You get more benefits if you're higher up?"

Belial gave him an odd look; the kind that questions if you have been walking through life blindfolded, since you suddenly ask if the sky is blue. Ukobach was casting him similar looks, accompanied by some hand motion to his head that could, maybe, indicate that Shiro must be stupid. Or have an insect in his hair.

"Do you know how demons gain power to rise in rank, Fujimoto-kun?"

Come to think of it, he didn't.

"They grow stronger with age?"

"That is part of it, yes. They also consume those who are weaker than themselves."

Oh.

Shiro's stirring of the sauce became slightly slower.

_Oh._

"You eat each other", he said flatly.

"We absorb spirit energy." Demons. It always came down to the choice of words. "Rising in rank is an insurance for survival: consume others and gain power, or gain protection from a demon so powerful others won't dare cross him."

When Ukobach realised his chattering didn't reach through to Shiro, the little familiar rapped him smartly over the knuckles with his spoon and pointed to the spaghetti.

"That's one sick system you've got. Move a bit, will ya?" he said, and took the pot to pour out the water in the sink using a pair of pink-and-white polka-dotted oven gloves.

"It fosters the best warriors, as per Lord Satan's wishes", Belial replied as he slid out of the way with minimum movement.

The best warriors. The best butlers. The best chefs. As Shiro's vision disappeared in the steam from the pot, he began to see how it all fit together. Ukobach wasn't a perfectionist: he had become one, to keep his job. Belial had made his own adaptations, to meet Samael's demands and exercise damage control in response to whatever ludicrous ideas his master got into his head. Same with the rest of the staff, which endured lethal piano floors and thankless servitude to ensure they were good enough to gain protection from Gehenna's second strongest.

"Suppose it's efficient for that, yeah." He let the train of thought go without waving farewell, and focused on getting all the spaghetti in the sieve. "Has any demon ever gained so much power he could rival a King?"

"Not in my lifetime – maybe never. Kings generally consume them before they become real threats."

So, they were that much stronger? Figured. They were Satan's own children. Nobody could possibly…

"What prevents a King form eating all his subjects?" Shiro mused aloud as the question addressed his mind.

"If they ate us all, demonkind would go extinct. Other than that, nothing." That thin, creased-paper smile Belial had was getting unpleasant. "They rarely bother, unless it is for punishment. Consuming a demon of my level would be to them like adding a single drop of water to an ocean."

Samael had said something like that, hadn't he? That the Kings didn't fight each other, because the damage would be tremendous if they did. Without missing a beat, Shiro took the mixture of tomatoes and red pepper flakes and poured it into the simmering wine, and proceeded to add the pasta to the tomato sauce in the other skillet. Enough power to lay waste to continents. It was like trying to grasp that the universe was infinite, and yet expanding. That kind of power was godlike.

And if the Kings had been gods to humans in ancient times…

No. No, there were tracks that trains of thought shouldn't travel. That was one of them.

"There is a third way to choose, of course", Belial spoke up, and successfully pulled Shiro off track: "Escape to Assiah. There are quite a few who do that, I'm sure you've noticed. Coal tars. Goblins. Greenmen. Chuchi. Assiah is full of weak little things. And full of spirit energy one can capture and consume without risking one's own." Unpleasant smile: the kind that would look the same regardless if he were cuddling with kittens or skinning them. "Plenty of fish in glass bowls."

"I suppose I should say welcome to the aquarium, even if it's a little belated. Bigger fish is still fish", he returned flatly, focusing entirely on tossing the spaghetti with the tomato sauce. "If you didn't have to worry about getting eaten and didn't have to work for Samael: what would you do? What do you dream of doing?"

"Please rephrase the question."

A strangely blank expression had crossed Belial's features. He winced at the name, yes – Shiro had thrown it in there for that purpose alone – but that discomfort gave way to… incomprehension?

"What…?" He stopped the tossing for fear of spilling it all over the stove if he didn't keep his eyes and hands in the same place. Instead, he turned to look at Belial to be sure he didn't misread the tone in his voice. "You don't know what dreaming is?"

"It is when the human brain uses fragments of memory and emotion to create nonsensical show reels while sleeping", he replied, in the voice of one who reads aloud from a lexicon. Belial had a human brain. No human consciousness and no human emotions, but he did have a human brain; and yet… he didn't dream?

"Demons don't dream?"

"We do not. Ukobach says you need to check that the sauce flavours have married, and return the chicken to the skillet as soon as they have."

"I'm on it, I'm on it. But oneiroi… No, they only induce dreams in humans, now that I think about it. Live in dreams, but can't create them. Anyway, when you say you dream of doing something, you mean there's some special thing you'd like to do in life."

And of all the possible answers Shiro could have expected, he had never thought that Belial would want to try figure skating.

* * *

"Ahh~ Looking delicious, Shiro." There was the option of interpretation to Samael's statement, and Shiro pointedly ignored it. He set the stuffed squash blossom antipasti before the demon without a word. "Your background in cooking shows clearly in the swift development. So, concerning your other important homework…?"

"I haven't chosen one yet."

"Any candidates, then?"

"Not really", he dodged as he seated himself and felt an annoying tug in the back, where his shirt was _properly_ tucked inside the lining of his trousers. Properly. God, what an annoying word.

"Have you even started looking?" asked Samael with that kind of pointed skepticism that Has Already Guessed.

"What's the hurry? It's months left."

"It is; and you can barely spell your own name in Latin letters."

"Can we keep this a practical lesson?" he said, catching himself a hairbreadth from snapping rather than asking.

He needed practice. Chopsticks weren't used in Italy. You weren't allowed to lift your plate and bring it closer to your mouth, either. It made him wonder if people in Italy ate at all.

Samael had decided to put the kitchen in junction with the grand dining hall, the one with not one but _three_ carved stone hearths and an equal number of crystal chandeliers lighting the long table. The demon took the head seat, of course, dressed in something that could only be – of all idiotic things he owned – a noodle-themed suit. Shiro found himself placed at his right side, with the remaining fifty-or-so seats awkwardly void of occupants.

"If you wish. Did you know Italian TV is considering airing _Grendizer_ once the production is finished?" he picked up effortlessly while fastening the napkin in his shirt collar. "I do hope they air it with subtitles. Dubbing is an unforgivable atrocity", he concluded with delicate repulsion. "Even more so when the West equates anime with children's cartoons and treats it like second class productions. No thought whatsoever in the assigning of voice acting roles. You should hear the German dubs – goodness, they make my beard hairs curl!"

* * *

The appetizer was quickly finished, and invited the _primo_ onto the table: the dreaded spaghetti, with tomato sauce, arugula, and shaved Pecorino cheese. Shiro watched his plate as if the food would attack if he tried to eat it. It was noodles, basically. He knew how to eat noodles. Sadly, knife and fork had very little in common with chopsticks.

"What are you doing, you barbarian?"

" _Eating, if I didn't have to do it by some dumb rules of etiquette._ " He had barely even started cutting it, and Samael was already aghast at his table manners. " _Tch…_ "

"Put away that knife: the proper way to eat spaghetti is with the fork."

"Only the fork?" How? Was he playing some dumb prank again? Teaching him wrong just to make him laughing stock in Ita- "That… is just wrong."

"It's ingenious~" And with those words, he scooped up spaghetti with his fork and wound it up, like on a spindle, with a few expert flicks of his fingers and wrist. "Mmh~ Perfectly cooked this time. Pity the same can't be said of the sauce."

When you disconnect enough from yourself, from the world, you can feel how you start… drifting. Fading, like an old photograph, until you move through the picture like a ghost, and everything passes right through you without making contact. You might remember how it felt to slide your fingertips over oiled wood… but you won't feel it. All you feel is a surreal sensation of undulating between reality and dream, withdrawing bit by bit until your head is a locked room filled with still air and cut connections.

When Samael spoke, the air moved. Connections reformed. Sparks were struck.

The glass bowl cracked.

"You won't have to eat it once I'm in Rome", he muttered harshly, trying to cool the simmering irritation before it could build up to anger.

"I pity whoever will."

Bullshit. He wouldn't know pity if it hit him in the face with-

" _Calm down._ " Calm down, because fish outside the bowl were easy prey. "Fine, I'm a bad cook. I'm more worried about the Scrutinies", Shiro posited the third time the spaghetti slipped and unwound from his fork. "I know it's just more of the same self-development and spiritual maturation thing, but I'm not sure I can fake convincing belief that some guy really could instant-clone fish. Or make blind men see by rubbing a handful of spit and mud in their eyes. I get the symbolism, but… I don't understand religious people. To believe that literally, you need a few screws missing."

"Some of them would say the same of you, for not believing", Samael snickered. "Religion requires faith, not proof; and faith is to trust with all your heart in that which your brain cannot prove through any of your senses. That said, legends are fashioned from a measure of truth, if that knowledge helps your acting", he continued, swirling his fork in slow, pensive circles over his plate. "There have been humans with gifts out of the ordinary, although few and far between in time. No real sons of God, mind you: just poor souls unfortunate enough to be born different. Soothsayers, healers and miracle-workers, all forced to explain their gifts in some way that made them less frightful." A single straw of spaghetti rose up to the movements of his fork, like a snake charmed by a flute. Samael cocked his head and glanced at him with a lazy smile. "Your own ability to synchronize with demons might have seen you counted among them, had you been born in an age when people were more inclined to believe in the supernatural."

"And then I would've been hung for wizardry", he retorted dryly, and gracelessly shoved a bundle of spaghetti into his mouth before it fell apart.

"As many of them were", he confirmed flippantly. "Although the penalty for wizards was generally death by stoning in Christian territories."

"Lovely. And they just had this kind of 'thing', ability or whatever, from birth? For no reason?"

"Just like you~" he smiled wide and winked, and sipped his wine without a care in the world.


	71. Don't worry

"Fujimoto-kun, don't overexert yourself. You already have a good sense of how much strain your body can take."

Gokuro-sensei was worried that Shiro overdid his training. Shiro wasn't.

"Don't worry, sensei. I need this."

Because he needed to punch _something_. Even if it was just a sand bag.


	72. Flawed but functional

December came, same as all the months before it, except for two things.

One was that Shiro would help with the preparations for a Catholic Christmas in the community, which spanned twelve days from the 25th of December to the 6th of January. The other was a letter, tucked in a cheap envelope with ballpoint-pen kanji that were painfully familiar.

Days passed. Endless cycles of sleeping and waking until the two blurred in pointless monochrome. There were reports he had to write and homework he had to do, missions to go on and community work with raising alms for the poor. There were a zillion things he had to do, all more urgent than opening that letter. It was when he caught himself considering if he should ask Ukobach for extra cooking lessons that he admitted how pathetic he was.

Sooner or later, somebody would have told her some version of what had happened. Sooner or later, he would have to face her. Sooner had passed, later had come, and there was only one thing to do.

Outwit his doubts, feint to the side, and make a dash for the letter before they realised what was happening.

_Hi Fuji_

Shiro inhaled deeply. As long as he didn't read past the first line of kanji, he was fine. As long as he didn't know what the rest of the letter said, he still had hope. And fear. And uncertainty.

 _Stop being an idiot and read already. You've probably been leaving this around for days anyway, thinking I'm mad at you._  
  
Touché.

_Shizzy told me about the host-thing. Sen-chan told me the rest of the story. I swear I'll have my shahrokh bite off their balls if I meet one of those stinking Yaonaru on my way back. Yeah, I'm heading back to True Cross Town: figured you'd be down in the dumps from this whole thing. I figured you'd be scared what I thought of you, too, so I sent this letter a few weeks in advance in case you leave it on your desk till you think it won't bite you. I just hope you read it before I come the 26th._

The calendar by the window set today's date to the 23rd. The stamp on the envelope said December 6th. Had he really left that letter on his desk for two weeks already…?

_Shizzy doesn't know I'm coming. I only talked with him through a payphone once, after I got his letter, but he made it pretty damn clear he will beat the living daylights out of you if he finds out we've been seeing each other again. I wonder if he could, though. Is it true you broke his arm?_

Shiro's jaws clicked together. He hadn't _meant_ to… but there were many things he had never meant to do.  
 _  
I'll be waiting for you at Minamoto Hostel in the Northern parts of True Cross Town. You're still allowed to leave school, right? I hear there's been talk of making the boarding school rules stricter, so that you can't leave the premises at all without permission. Is school really so bad they have to lock their students up to prevent them from running off? If Pheles has decided to do that, call the number on the back of the letter (that's for my lodgings) and I'll do a little break-in instead. I'm sure he won't mind. =)_

_Love you,_

_Kasumi_

* * *

Isn't it strange? The more you know you _shouldn't_ do something, the more do you want to do _precisely_ that.

Shiro wondered briefly if all humans had the same defect, or if he once again was the lucky special one. Maybe they did, and just were better at resisting the impulse than he was. Maybe he just wasn't as good at it as he should have been.  
 _  
Maybe the Lord has decided to test you?_ suggested the part of his mind that had been too well conditioned to play the charade of budding believer. Shiro hadn't particularly liked god's trials. He had tested Job because a demon taunted him into it. Like a bet. Who would trust a god that bet with demons?

Northern True Cross crunched under his feet. Frail ice coated the asphalt, glass between frames of massive concrete buildings. Heaters sighed heavily from the towering façades of apartment balconies. Rusty breaths of white steam against the yawning dusk. Winter was coming. The air smelled of frost, of clear nights and cold stars: what little you could see of them. There were barely any stars visible above True Cross Town – nothing like the sky above Hakkoda Mountains, where he'd passed his Esquire exam a lifetime ago. With his friends.

A stray dog – some gangly, brown crossbreed with perky ears – seemed to consider for a moment if it was worth a shot to beg him for food. It looked at him from across the small street, almost golden in the lamplight. Looked and looked, and eventually decided it had better things to do and trotted off.

Maybe there was another dog, somewhere. Watching what he did. Planning what he would do.

Maybe.

Shiro shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, shoulders drawn up to make a little less cold air filter in through his jacket. There was a screaming lack of plan in what he was currently doing, and his feet weren't the least interested in stopping to let him think of one. He didn't want to give her false hopes. He would be leaving by summer, dammit. There was no telling if it would be months or years before he came back. If he did come back.

" _I might never see her again._ " Good job, brain. Good job with a plan. Excellent work with this whole thing.

Acting on emotion again. Neglecting reason. Doing things he shouldn't do. That had worked so great last time, right?

" _This will be different_ ", he told himself. He was just going to see her. No emotion involved. Just see her. " _Completely disregarding that going to see her in itself is me acting on an emotional wish_ ", he scoffed.

There's a special word for things you shouldn't do, but really, really want to do. That word is "temptation".

Considering his situation, Shiro should have been better at resisting those.

* * *

Kasumi didn't even give him the time to get his shoes off in the hostel reception; she was around his neck in a matter of seconds, a flurry of mauve and black and green and…

"No break-in, then? Ya'll have ta compensate me fer the fun I miss, Fuji", she hummed in his ear. She was so warm, after the December evening. The blue cardigan felt handmade against his chilled fingers, with the occasional bump and knot. Cheap yarn, probably. She smelled of a fresh bath that didn't quite wash away the smell of long days on winter roads. She was oxygen. She was sunshine.

God, she was perfect.

"I've missed you, too", he murmured into her hair. "How's life been treating you?"

"The usual. Ya know. Pebbles an' puddles, an' some road in between." Kasumi slipped out of the embrace, hands on his shoulders, and scrutinised him at arm's length. The way you do with little children when you estimate how much they've grown since last time. She made a proper show of it, eyeing him up and down, furrowing her brow and pursing her lips as best she could. "Hmm, nope. Ya look exactly the same as I left ya. Gotta say imma bit disappointed with ya, Fuji. I always pictured Satan's vessel somebody big an' buff an' fierce", she winked, with scars sagging one half of her crooked grin.

"Yeah, you'd think there were many better alternatives." The smile didn't reach his eyes, he felt that; and saw it reflected in Kasumi's face.

"Hmm…" Her features turned sceptical, and her fingers squeezed his shoulders and upper arms for further scrutiny. "Ya might qualify as buff, though. If I'm feelin' generous."

That Shiro was slow and missing steps in the pair-dance known as bantering was partly because the joy that wit draws fuel from was muted, but partly it was… because something was off with Kasumi. And it wasn't the multi-coloured, haphazard chimera of a scarf that covered part of her face.

"Have you…" Part of his mind informed him that this could be a sensitive topic, especially for women, and that he might get in trouble for it. "…lost weight?"

She seemed a little surprised, but that was all.

"Nah, just misplaced it. It'll turn up sooner or later." She patted his shoulder dismissively, like a judge requesting the discussion to return to the topic. "I'm more interested in hearin' what you've been up to lately. Sen an' Shizzy told me two pretty different stories, so I'm lookin' fer a first-hand account o' what really happened. So~ ya feelin' up fer a walk?"

"It's cold, but sure."

"Already thought o' that~" she confided with a shrewd grin that indicated she had very much thought of this. Skipping away to the reception counter, she reached down for something that had been hidden behind a stack of old newspapers. "Merry Christmas!"

The present she thrust at him was wrapped in the same kind of colour-splashed patchwork knitting as her scarf, and tied together neatly with a red ribbon. Christmas present. _Christmas present._ Shit…

"Really, you shouldn't have…" he began, but Kasumi would have none of that.

"Come on – it's the kind'a gift ya leave ta mold in a drawer anyway. Open it!"

He was way too occupied with trying to come up with something to give her in return to coordinate his fingers. Something a little more creative than food would be nice. He'd cooked enough food for Samael, and he had cooked for Kasumi already, but what else could he give her that she had use for?

The ribbon loosened, and the fabric unwound to reveal… nothing. The wrapping was all there was in-

"Oh."

"I had some yarn left after I made me' own, so I figured I might as well", Kasumi smiled at the face he made. "It's all scraps from mom's handicraft centre, that's why it looks so unique."

"It looks very unique", he agreed, a smile of his own growing as he tried and failed to find two patches that were the same in colour and knitting. He'd never even known there were this many ways of knitting…

"Wait till ya wash it", she chortled, and tossed the deformed end of her own scarf over her shoulder to button up her jacket. "Then it'll look uniquer."

"Shouldn't that be 'more unique'?"

"Not fer this scarf." Her shoes were on as if they'd jumped onto her feet, and just as swiftly she hooked her arm in his. "It's so unique it has its own grammar."

* * *

Don't ever underestimate the value of a night walk for speaking. Shiro told the story to her, to the humming street lamps, to the rusted garage doors, to the bicycles that slept locked-and-chained under green blankets of tarpaulin. There were so many things in the world, suddenly. So many things that had blurred and faded when he had; things that gained shape, gained _meaning,_ other than the listless name tags he was used to assigning them. Time lost track of them on the small, winding alleys of Northern True Cross: demons didn't. Weak but curious, they trailed them over silent roof tiles and bumpy cobblestone like shadows in the corner of one's eye.

"And that's how it happened", he concluded, ages later, when the sparse moonlight the sky offered had been covered in clouds.

"Fucking Yaonarus!" she hissed out between her teeth.

He had never seen Kasumi truly angry; but like the demons that hide in the corner of one's eye, glimpses let you imagine the consequences when she was.

"They 'ad no damn business with you – seeing conspiracies everywhere, paranoid fuckin' assholes!"

"No objections there."

"An' I can bet my sweet ass they're the ones who've been rilin' people up 'gainst the Order", she continued, eyebrows furrowed in thought as she brushed the scarf back and forth against her lower lip. "Pheles 's already aware of it, I'm guessin'?"

"I've been too busy lately to spend much time with him." Which was entirely deliberate, but there were gains to be made from holding up a friendly façade: less prying to worm around, less questions to answer with lies.

"It's that Deep Keep thing the Yaonarus wanted ya outta the game for. There's people usin' it ta argue that Pheles ain't such a useful guard dog as 'e should be: that 'e might have other objectives than serving the Order."

"What people?" People related to Tanzi? To Yaonaru? Or some other enemy of Samael's?

It would be a pleasure to see that bastard hunted – a pure, cruel, unadulterated pleasure. On the downside, anyone suspected of collaborating with Samael would also be hunted: any element that threatened to hinder him might also threaten to hinder Shiro's mission in Rome. The Yaonarus had already made it perfectly clear that they would bestow that favour. And the Yaonarus had connections.

"Wish I knew. Just caught some leaves in the wind, don't know which tree they came from. There's a lot o' hush 'round it." Kasumi muted a cough in the crook of her arm. "Partly 'cause they don't wanna oppose the Order openly, but I'm guessin' it's also partly 'cause some o' them might be _in_ the Order", she said with a knowing glance at him. "Easier ta gather dirt on Pheles if they keep that position, I'm thinkin'. The Yaonarus would play it that way, at least." She drew a deep breath, the kind that isn't for getting air but for cooling heat. "How does it work, then? How d'ya deal with, ya know, having this demon compatibility thing?"

"Well, simply put: if I lose control, they take control. So I'm blocking off emotion to prevent that." Pause. "It makes me a bit detached, as you might have noticed."

"I noticed somethin' like that, yeah. That's gotta suck."

"…Hard to tell, really. It doesn't feel good _or_ bad: just monotonous." No, emotional sensory deprivation didn't feel bad. It just slowly ate you from inside. "Then of course there's times when I would like to just let go and get swept along. Like when I get angry." Like just about every time he had to put up with Samael's 'practical' lessons. "Those times it's hard to stay in control and keep my distance to it."

"Now I get why ya blamed yerself fe' the accident", she murmured softly: a serious face that lasted only a second before it lit up with mischief. "m'I too much of a temptation, heeh~? Can't keep yer emotions in check when I'm around~?"

Was she out of her mind?

…Well, she had to be. Any girl who cared about her safety would be miles away from Satan's vessel.

"You're not exactly making it _easy_ ", Shiro pointed out, smile going crooked on his lips as he shook his head. "I don't get how you think when you're still around me, but I'm glad you are."

"Well, I figured Satan needs some competition – can't let 'im have ya all ta himself", she chuckled brightly. "Jokes aside, though: people treating ya bad fer this?"

There was a tiny speck of warmth that embedded itself in his chest: the way she said it made him think of a big sister asking her brother if he was bullied in school, with the silent promise of reprisal attached if he were.

"Most avoid me, that's all." She didn't need to know about the anonymous notes that found their way into his mail compartment every now and then. "Not Midori- and Sen-chan, of course, but apart from them it's like living in a bubble. Not in a bad way", he added thoughtlessly in response to the pained look in Kasumi's eyes. "I mean… When you block off emotion the way I do, you grow indifferent after a while – dulled, sort of. You kinda…" He brushed off an especially persistent coal tar. "Grow used to it. Humans can adapt to almost any conditions." That's how they survived.

"And ye're okay with that?" she asked: the kind of pointed question that is rhetorical, with its answer already determined by the tone.

"I can't stop blocking and I can't stop being targeted by demons: growing used to it is the only thing I can do." Once upon a time, he might have found it disturbing how easily such words left his lips: now, there was only indifference. "It's good that people avoid me, in a way", he continued, fingers toying with the lighter in his trouser pocket. "Makes it less of a risk that I hurt them."

"Ya'd like me ta stay away from ya, too, is that it?"

Kasumi had stopped on the sidewalk, nailed to the ground like a guard tower, and aimed at him the kind of dogged glare you only find in small children who do _not_ want to go. She wasn't angry, not yet, but she would consider it very soon. Her eyes were black fire, her lips a sharp line of defiance, and her arms were crossed harshly over a chest that wasn't as voluptuous as it used to be.

"I was thinking about it when I walked to Minamoto", he confessed flatly. "But I couldn't stop my feet from moving."

"An' ya friends?" she said, not budging a centimetre. "Ya want them ta turn their backs on ya?"

"No, I just-"

He didn't get farther than that: Kasumi's hand squashed the cross on his glasses cord into his cheek as she slapped him across the face. Not to hurt. She didn't hit him to hurt, so her face said. She hit to startle.

"Quit that", she groaned, with the grimace of one who finds herself in charge of a baby that has discovered that food is more fun to play with than eat. "That 'I'm just gonna roll over an' take it' attitude; it's unmanly."

"Unmanly…?" Nope, he was still preoccupied with the fact that she had slapped him.

"Unmanly", she confirmed brusquely. "Just givin' up an' not caring anymore: it friggin' pisses me off, people who are like that. Ya wanna change things, ya fight fer it. If ya sit on yer lazy ass thinking 'bout stuff ya wanna do but never do it, what's the point? Even if ya fail, ya _try_." She tugged his scarf sharply, pushed the word into his face. "If ya don't try, ya'll spend the rest o' yer life wondering what could'a been if ya had. Ya don't wanna lose yer friends? Then make a goddamn effort ta reach through that bubble, 'cause _they're_ tryin' ta reach through it fe' _you_." Her eyebrows rose, two dark streaks underlining her statement. "Yeah, _you_ – even if ya think ye're dangerous an' dickish, Midori an' Sen-chan 're still makin' an effort ta keep contact with ya, ye stupid oaf." She tugged his scarf again, and pressed her lips onto his; soft and hot and… delicious…

Emotional indifference, sure: Shiro still had the body of a nineteen-year-old male. If it wanted to rule against his brain's decisions, it would. If it wanted to kiss back and pull her small body close, it would. If it wanted to heat up to smooth curves and the smell of road dust, and burn holes in his mental focus, it would.

" _I shouldn't, not like this._ " But it had been so long, and her tongue was wet silk against his. " _It's just like last time, dammit, I can't put her at risk again!_ " But his pulse was already panting fervently for more: as were the demons waiting in the shadows. " _This is bad, it's night, it's way out, I shouldn't do this!_ "

But it felt so good to give in.

That's what demons did: give in to temptation, not caring what was destroyed because of it. That's what imprint did, to those humans who had it.

"Idiot", Kasumi smiled fondly, when at long last he made himself break the kiss. "What good is blaming ye'self gonna do, hm? What's gonna change if ya make ye'self miserable? We'll be misreable too, that's what." She bumped her forehead gently against his, arms still around his neck where she'd left them. "We care about ya, idiot."

"I care about you, too", he murmured, sending a pale white cloud into the narrow gap between their faces. "It's just that no matter what I do, it turns out wrong."

"Didn't turn out wrong now, did it? I kissed ya, an' no demons jumped outta the shadows."

"They could have: I had a hard time not… losing control."

"But ya didn't. Practise makes perfect, don'tcha know? Keep practising, keep trying, an' you'll be outta that bubble before ya know it", Kasumi smiled wickedly. "An' stop blaming ye'self so much – 's gonna give ya grey hairs." She tugged gently at the hair in his neck.

"Yeah. Bit too late for the hair", he smiled softly.

He didn't deserve her. Not by a long shot. But love is blind, and very pushy.

* * *

A cold, light rain came in when they picked their way slowly back to her hostel. Kasumi showed him how to wind the scarf to cover both head and neck, but not without first being intensely fascinated with his now naturally white hair.

"Really? It turned white, just like that? Why?"

"Came part and parcel with the Satan's vessel kit. I don't know why", he lied smoothly, and tossed in a shrug for good measure; then he had to catch the end of his scarf and keep it from flopping onto the wet asphalt.

"…'S it the same kind o' thing that turned yer eyes red?"

"They're not red, they're maroon."

"They _were_ maroon", she observed. "Every time we pass by a street lamp they flash red."

Shiro knew that. Moreover, _Kita_ knew that. He figured he could still get sunglasses and blame some obscure eye-disease for hypersensitivity, but it wouldn't fool those who were already suspicious – which was just about everyone.

"Alright, they might've changed colour a little", he admitted under his breath. "But it's only in a certain light."

"It doesn't look bad, ya know." Kasumi was grinning at him, he could tell by the shape of her eyes, but from that side he could only see a feeble twitching in her cheek. "Makes ya look like one o' those 'mysterious strangers' in crappy romance novels."

"…I'd consider that pretty bad."

"Alright, that is pretty bad", she admitted with a chortle. "I don't mind it, that's what I'm sayin': whateva' colour ya have on eyes an' hair, ye're still you. While we're on the subject, Sen-chan's letter said Midori-chan claimed that Pheles knew stuff about these changes that're happenin' to ya, but that 'e denied it", Kasumi continued and wound her scarf up around her mouth. "She seemed ta think he'd done something to ya ta _make_ ya change."

"He's the one who examined me; he hasn't done anything to me. I'll admit he's fascinated by all this, but he doesn't know any more about 'why' than I do."

Sometime, long ago, had he detested the thought of living a life of pretence and lies? Good work with that.

"No, I figured as much. The thing with half-demons in general an' Midori-chan in pe'ticular is that they're very protective o' the ones they consider their flock."

They rounded the corner and left the alleys for the main road, with the chill wind that flushed rain in their faces. December was in a bad mood; and the scarf may look unique, but it really did wonders for comfort.

"When this all happened to ya, I'm thinkin' her instinct ta protect 'er flock led 'er ta seek somebody ta blame, an' Pheles was a handy option", Kasumi continued. "'S too bad, really. I can only hope she sorts it out fer he'self. Talkin' it over some with Sen-chan might help, otherwise. So, did that examination give any explanation?" she muttered into her scarf, head bent down against the wind.

"All we could gather was that I have some sort of extreme resilience, physically and mentally", he replied, squinting ahead above the rims of his very wet and very useless glasses. "And that it's possible to develop it further. I really didn't mean to break your brother's arm back then. I'd been testing what kind of effect the resilience had on muscle fibre, and it turns out I can get freakishly strong with the right training. All people get strong by training, I know, but I get _really_ strong: on par with a demon." Which was why Midori kept rejecting his explanations: no human gets that kind of strength unless a demon has a hand in it. "That's kind of classified, though", he added, meeting her gaze sideways in quiet understanding. "Practical purposes, since we can't explain how I got so strong and don't wanna get me into more shit with the Order. The official version is that I had one hell of an adrenaline rush. It works, 'cause my body doesn't really look like it'd have demonic strength."

"Oh, I don't know 'bout that", Kasumi sniggered impishly, and sent him that special Look only women can generate. "I sure _felt_ muscle."

"Careful with my control, you little demon", he smiled into his scarf. "But yeah, in the end none's the wiser in this. Mephisto mentioned there'd been other kinds of deviations before me - prophets and healers and other stuff you can hear of in legends. It's something that just happens, apparently. Like spontaneous mutations or something."

"An' of all things, ya mutated ta be a good vessel fer demons? Ye're one unlucky bastard, ya know that?" Kasumi chuckled humourlessly beside him. "I should'a made you a charm ta ward off bad fortune instead of a scarf."

"Warding off a bad cold is good enough for me. Shizuku-san offered to make me a charm that warded off stupidity once: can you make me one of those?"

Kasumi didn't reply, only laughed and slung her arm around his waist. He returned the gesture, then fumbled a while to synchronise their pace before he gave up. His legs were too much taller than hers. Her feet seemed like cat's paws next to his. All of her was so very much shorter and smaller than he was – and thinner. He'd felt that, even through the layers of winter clothes when they embraced for the kiss, and even if she joked about it…

"Just, wondering… have you been eating properly?" he asked cautiously.

There was a pause, the kind of pause where one debates whether to joke away an issue or address it, and Shiro's suspicions squirmed in his chest.

"Don't worry, Fuji", she replied. Off tune. Off beat. And his suspicions squirmed some more. "I've been gettin' fewer jobs, sure, but I can make ends meet even if customers are scared o' me."

Make ends meet, and simultaneously save up money to go to True Cross to visit him…?

"Just means I gotta work harder an' show I got the skills even if I haven't got the looks", she chuckled softly. "There's always pebbles an' puddles on the road."

"You should've told me", he murmured.

"An' given ya one more thing ta blame ye'self fer? Nah. I carry my load, you carry yours." Seeing the look on his features, she elbowed him gently in the side. "Don't make such a face, Fuji. I'm used ta beein' poor, trust me – we used ta have six mouths ta feed in my family."

Shiro opened his mouth to object, but stopped before he could make a jackass out of himself. What mandate did he have to complain if she kept her problems from him, with his own record? None. Whatsoever none, and Shizuku's words drifted back to him from a stuffy hospital corridor: _nothing will bother her as long as she's got feet to walk on and hands to work with_.

Yes, she was mad. A beautiful kind of madness. Humans can adapt to almost any conditions, wasn't that what he'd just said? And wasn't that what she did?

What they both did.

"I suppose there's some sort of logic to it", he admitted as they turned the corner onto the street where Minamoto hostel lay. "At least let me pay your stay while you're here."

* * *

Minamoto was an unenthusiastic three story building, that seemed to pull its shoulders in and make itself small enough to fit between the neighbouring houses. It was the kind of hostel that is frequented by backpackers from all over the world, all intent on leaving their personal mark on the establishment in the form of stickers, doodles, paper folding creations and, on one occasion in the shared kitchen, a vehicle registration plate.

For two days the cost was just up above 10 000 yen. That yielded a room barely large enough for the bed, table and chair that lived there. The carpeting bore the scent of too many former inhabitants, and hand-painted walls that tried to peel the smell off with the paint. One naked window glanced out over the neighbouring house's backyard, which looked more like a dump for neglected garden furniture.

"Pardon?"

Shiro turned away from the glum view to see Kasumi unwinding her chimera scarf. He had proposed that he could add in the money for a better room, but she would have none of it.

"Ye're the one paying fe' the room; shouldn't ya stay an' sleep in it…?" she suggested, sauntering up to him with that telltale look of impishness about her that used to make her lips look so inviting. "Or get a little… warmth… before ya go back out inta the cold…?"

Her hands ran up the chest of his jacket, and the warmth felt good indeed.

"Catholics don't approve of sex outside marriage." The reply came flying out of his mouth. "Which is too bad."

Kasumi's look changed to one of bemusement.

"Since when did ya start carin' 'bout what Catholics think?"

"Since I applied to convert. It slipped my mind earlier", he excused, scratching the back of his head. "I gotta prove my spiritual fortitude to the Order, so following the 'right path' is a plus. If they think I can't handle defences on my own they might lock me up in some demon-safe dungeon."

With a sigh, the last look of impishness left Kasumi's scarred face.

"Ya poor unfortunate basterd." She arranged his scarf a bit more snugly, taking care to tuck it inside his jacket. "Neva' stop tryin', okay?" She rose up on the balls of her feet and kissed him, gently; not for passion, not for teasing, but for love. "No matter how many pebbles an' puddles there are along the way, ya neva' stop."  
 _  
you might never see her again_

Shiro kissed her back, touched her lips with wishes and farewells that would never be set in words.

"Never", he promised.

* * *

Regret is the graveyard of dreams and wishes, either murdered by recklessness or choked to death by fear. Fear of failure. Fear of consequences. Fear of getting hurt, or hurting others.

Regret commands an army of ghosts, whispering the haunting words "what if" from the sediments of memory. Things that could have been. Things that never were. Attempts made that shouldn't have been, and ones that should and weren't.

 _if ya don't try, ya'll spend the rest o' yer life wondering what could'a been if ya had_  
  
The rest of the walk through True Cross. The rest of the night. The rest of his life.

He might never see Kasumi again. He shouldn't give her false hopes. He shouldn't-

He might never see her again, dammit. He might never see her again, and the last thing he would give her was what? A lone stay in a shabby hostel room a cold December night? Excused by a religion he didn't even believe in?

* * *

Kasumi had never gone to school or had any formal training in exorcism. What she did have was knowledge etched in skin and mind, experience spelled in scars and chants that could fill as many books as the ones that were studied in True Cross Academy's cram school. When she heard knocking on the window, the staff was in her hand and a summoning chant on her lips the moment she was out of the bed.

No human knocks on a window set on the second floor.

Winter night had painted the window black, and in the quiet came the rapping noise again. With the tip of her walking staff, Kasumi turned the window latch from a distance and shoved the window outwards with a rough-

"Ow!"

"…Shiro?"

She groped the wall for a switch, and the faded light illuminated a tuft of stark white hair level with the windowsill, where four equally white fingers clutched hold.

"I know the window's supposed ta be romantic an' all, Mr. Mysterious Red-eyed Stranger, but don't ya think it's a li'l bit impractical?" Kasumi tossed her staff on the bed and stalked over to the window, one hand on its frame and one hand held out to Shiro.

"I'm romantically challenged, can't help it. Here you go", he grunted: and instead of taking her hand, he put something in it. "Merry Christmas." He rubbed at the red mark the window had left in his forehead, before he set to climbing in. "I hope there's enough to make a proper scarf."

A craftsman knows the world through her fingers. Kasumi's knew birch and linden, cotton and wool, and all the regional techniques of knitting and carving from South to North: and when she got the spindle in her hand, she thrust it up towards the dim lamp for examination. The thread glimmered faintly iridiscent, like mother of pearl in starlight.

Suffice to say, Shiro was pleased with her reaction as he climbed in and closed the window behind him.

"Wow. What is…?" She turned it over and over in her hands, plucked and stroked and marveled. "I've never felt anything so smooth! What _is_ this?"

"Spider silk from a jorougumo."

Only then did she tear her eyes from the spindle, and looked at him like he'd just said he pulled it out of his ass.

"And ye're tellin' me ta make this into a _scarf_? It's the kind o' thing ya embroider the emperor's weddin' gown with."

Really? Shiro hadn't thought much about it since he won it at Hyakki Yagyou. He knew nothing of materials and crafts, and his artistic skill didn't extend beyond folding origami cranes.

"It's yours, so do what you want with it", he replied with a shrug.

…Angelic. With her hair let out for the night and a threadbare blue nightgown to go with that beaming smile, she was angelic. With the faded, yellow lamp-light for aureole and the flaking walls for frame, she was an odd sort of angel. But she was too beautiful for this world.

"That's a great Christmas present, Fuji. Thank you."

"Actually, that's not the Christmas present…" he said softly, and peeled the blue fabric off her shoulder. She shuddered from the cold of his fingers, but leaned into the kisses he planted on her neck.

"Weren't Catholics against sex outside marriage?" she murmured to his ear. Not that she would mind; she had already disposed of his jacket and was making good work of his shirt buttons.

"I'm not baptised Catholic till April; what they don't know won't hurt them. Or me."

She chuckled softly at that, and her hands grew more eager to map the muscles training had given him.

"We hav'ta be quiet, then."

"Hmmm I might make that hard for you…" he murmured back, and traced the nightgown over every curve as it slid off onto the carpenting.

"That's my line, Fuji", she teased, and slipped her hand down past his unbuckled belt.

* * *

Regret is a graveyard. Temptation is a pit.

The challenge for every man and woman is to balance on the narrow strip of earth between those.


	73. Perception

Habits have a tendency to come creeping without you even knowing it. In retrospect, Shiro didn't know _when_ he had resigned to his fate as Satan's vessel. He just noticed how big the difference was, when he started to actively try and interact with people again. Broken connections are hard to fix. You can make them work, but there will always be splices visible, and the occasional static buzzing through the line.

The trial by fire would come in March, on Midori's day. She had been very clear on the point that it was her _day,_ not her _birth_ day: everyone was invited to celebrate it, although nobody told Shizuku that Shiro was invited, too. The idea was, put simply, to make them talk to each other.

Because Shiro had promised that he would _try_.

* * *

"And your important homework…?"

There were more trials than getting Shizuku on speaking terms, and not all of them were confined to March.

"It's still a month left", Shiro enlightened as he dropped his schoolbag on one of the gaudy cushions of the tower.

The tinted window panes spilled rainbows of spring sun into the studiolo, and you could almost imagine how the light stuck in the thick, sweet smell that hung in the air. It was the time of year when you started waking up to birdsong again, green started to creep up between yesteryear's leaves again, and you were once again reminded how bothersome those small fruit flies can be, when they are literally everywhere and never leave you alone. A bit like Samael.

"Something tells me I will be hearing the same excuse on Holy Saturday", said demon remarked with a thin eyebrow arching upwards.

" _If you keep bitching about it, then yes._ "

Shiro pictured her in his mind for an instant. Breathed in her scarred smile, her tanned body, her hair spilled out over white sheets. Breathed in the jarring shadows of ribs and hip bones under her skin; oxygen for the fire that fuelled him.

Whatever it took. Whatever it took to ensure Kasumi didn't have to starve to come and visit him.

"I will pick one. I just haven't decided yet", he replied, setting his calm in solid determination.

* * *

It's not _what_ you say, but _how_ you say it.

It was something his mom used to say. She'd said it like the words contained some secret compartment he would one day find, with deep meaning hidden inside it. It had seemed suitably mysterious, back when he'd been doing his homework at the kitchen table under her supervision. He'd pictured it like passing notes between the benches in the classroom; like a message you could send that only select people would understand. Like a secret language.

Nothing like Italian.

His vocabulary was steadily growing: as was his vocabulary of words for everything he did wrong with it. Over the weeks, Shiro became silently grateful that he was learning Italian and not Greek, since he was quite sure that he would never be able to say a word like _anaptyxis_ , even if Samael claimed he used that all the time.

"…che prendeva a calci la macchina e poi sfondava il vetro. Mentre trafficava con il freno a mano, il capolavoro si è concluso. End of dictation."

"I can't fucking write Italian", Shiro sighed heavily and ran a hand through his hair in frustration. There was the thin, hissing sound of the demon sliding his dictation over for scrutiny.

He _would_ do this, for Kasumi – if only his stupid brain could focus and get it right. He did his _damnedest_ , practised writing until he ran out of paper and read until his eyes bled out of their sockets, but it was like he just couldn't grasp it. It had been the same with English. He'd settled for just passing that, thinking he wouldn't need to use English again. Italian he would use. Extensively. It would be his stepping stone to studies in Latin – or so they had intended, at least.

Shiro had been given books to read, _children's_ books, and he still couldn't get the hang of it. He had been given drill exercises in writing Latin letters, and his handwriting still looked like an eight-year-old's. An eight-year-old with visual impairment. He made progress in speaking, sure: he could even pin the l:s at least 70% of the time, unless faced with tongue twisters like _altro_. He had no problem following spoken Italian, as long as it wasn't too fast-paced. The body language was nothing he cared to learn, no matter how important Samael seemed to think it was.

On the whole, Shiro could probably place an order at a restaurant, and pick his way through an average conversation. He was nowhere near reading Italian course literature and writing university papers.

"You had the same problem with English, I recall…" the demon mused, eyeing through the letters that stumbled awkwardly on each other's heels. "It looks to me like you're dyslectic."

"What are you on about?" he snorted. "I can read Japanese just fine. It's other languages that are the problem."

"That fits the description, actually." The demon twirled the ends of a gold-wrapped caramel between his fingers. The plastic bag on the table said W… e-r… ht… Imported goods for his fanciness' tastes, at any rate. "It's not unheard of that one whose native language uses a logographic writing system, like Japanese, can discover himself to be dyslectic when faced with an alphabetic one, such as the system English and Italian use. An unexpected obstacle, I do say." The golden caramel had shed the wrapping paper and was on its way to be eaten. "I could amend that - but then I would need something in return."

…There settled a brief, incredulous silence over the Renaissance studiolo, while Samael munched unperturbed on his sweets. Something in return? The bastard had the nerve to suggest yet another deal?

"If you knew how tantalizing that look is on your features", he snickered, turning the caramel slowly in his mouth. Taking his time. Savouringboth the taste and the view. "No need to make such a face: I did promise to do everything in my power to ensure your success, didn't I? I'm a man of my word", he spread his hands with a languid smile, "and I _will_ help you. I just can't do it for free."

"Can't just add another magic cross to my glasses cord, then? Or that was a one-time freebie to promote your services?" he retorted dryly.

"There's quite the difference between working magic on a pair of glasses and working magic on a living, breathing human being, you know", he smiled. "Objects I can alter as I please, and despite what you may think your glasses aren't part of your person. This is no mere optical distortion we're discussing: this is inside your head.I would need to reach in and modify the connections in your brain – alter your visual perception altogether. That", he raised a gloved finger to point out the importance of his words, "I can't do unless you", the finger tipped forward at Shiro, "surrender something of equal value. I will give you the most generous offer possible, I guarantee."

Shiro couldn't help but raise his eyebrows sceptically at the mention of "generous". Nonetheless, it was an offer circumstances forced him to consider. He had to be able to read and write to complete his mission: he could probably pull it off through sheer effort, but he was well acquainted with what a stressed schedule did to one's judgement and general functionality. It was a good offer…

…And the arrogant fuck offering it had risen out of his chair and sauntered over to Shiro's end of the small table, acting like it was a done deal already.

"What would something of equal value be?" he questioned, staring straight ahead and refusing to look up at Samael. "Auditory perception?"

"Would be, yes, but you need that as much as you need your visuals. If we consider what would be least detrimental for you to lose, I would say your perception of time."

Personal space is an alien concept to demons. Samael had assimilated that social custom perfectly, in public, but in private he saw no reason to respect people's personal spheres – or to leave their glasses strings alone. As if humans were just pieces of furniture, there for his convenience to fiddle with as he pleased. As if he owned them.

" _Well, doesn't he?_ " The words were bitter on his tongue even if he didn't utter them. Bitter, cynical… and true.

"Such a sacrifice would make it hard for you to gauge how much time has passed between one moment and another, and you might have some difficulty recalling in which order events have occurred unless there is a clear cause-and-effect relation between them." The cross-shaped bead he'd played with slid from his fingers, back to dangling from Shiro's glasses. "You could call it dyslexia of temporal perception – nothing you can't compensate for with a wristwatch and a calendar."

"…And if you just slightly improve my ability to read and write, would I be just slightly worse at gauging time?"

"Always equal exchange, little lion."

For a brief moment, Shiro was fully occupied with imagining the sweet feeling of his fist connecting with the demon's temple.

"Right… Can we take it by degree? So I can see how big the difference is." Shiro breathed out and rose – and checked an impulse to flinch away from the fingers that threaded into his hair.

"Certainly~"

* * *

…It reminded him of when Samael had examined his hair, after the discovery that it had gone permanently white. The soft pressure, the cautious touch of claw-tips; bony fingers that almost held their breath, for fear of handling the delicate porcelain of his skull too roughly. Shiro let his eyes wander the walls of the tower room, search for cover behind intarsia doors and windows barricaded by weeping remnants of snow. Search for cover from that… _that_.

Yeah, it reminded him of that time his hair had gone white. Something in the touch of ten warm fingertips on temples and scalp that seemed to touch so much more.

His mom had been right. Secret language, passing messages. It's not what you say, but how you say it.

Samael had assured him that the brain had no sensory receptors of its own, that he wouldn't feel a thing; still, there was… something. A presence. A _closeness_. Something he felt outside the range of nerves and receptors. Outside the range of his will.

" _Shit. He'll notice. He'll notice for sure._ "

It had been there a long time now. He hadn't noticed until summer holidays, but it must have been there ever since he'd gotten the imprint. Miraculously, Samael hadn't discovered it. Things could have been so much worse if he had.

" _And will be if he does_ ", he thought sardonically, and hoped he had arranged his features in a non-suspicious manner. Act natural. He should be good at that by now.

Eternity passed before Samael retracted his fingers. He hadn't noticed…? Or he thought Shiro was letting his guard down on purpose? Whatever. Act like nothing. Don't rouse suspicion.

A secret language only one of them was aware of. Messages sent with no words and infinite interpretations. It's not what you touch, but how you touch.

The demon slid the dictation back to him, still with no indication that he had noticed anything off. And Shiro could read it. He could _understand_ the sentences, without his eyes stuttering over words – and he saw clearly the places where he had turned the letter s backwards. He noticed a p where it should have been a q, and…

"There's a difference", he murmured, nodding in amazement as letters joined together in words before his eyes. "There's definitely a difference. Hand me that pen."

* * *

Shiro vividly remembered the day he got his first pair of glasses. It had been summer, and there had been an ice cream stand on the way that he had desperately pleaded his parents to stop at, so that maybe they'd forget the errand altogether. Grown-ups didn't do such things, though. They had promised he would get ice cream later, after they had picked up his glasses.

He had told his parents he didn't want any, that glasses were for sissies, but the optician's verdict had been absolute: nine-year-old Fujimoto was too myopic to go without.

Nine-year-old Fujimoto was no more inclined to care about such an opinion than nineteen-year-old Fujimoto was. The glasses had arrived in a simple black box – square, ugly things – and he had plain refused to wear them.

The optician had been frustrated. His mom had been embarrassed; she only fidgeted with her wristwatch like that when she was embarrassed. It gave him that horrible, horrible feeling of being a bad son, but he fought it down with the argument that they were just as bad parents. No reminders of ice cream could make him budge.

Eventually, his dad had bent his creaky knees and sat down on his haunches, level with his moping son. He'd pointed at the tangle of electric cables on the pole outside the window, and asked if Shiro knew what bird it was that sat there. He remembered turning his head, and squinting at the blurry shape… and then the glasses had been placed on his nose from behind. They had hung awkwardly from one ear, and poked into his other in a very uncomfortable way.

He still remembered how his mouth had dropped open in chagrin, when he saw that the "bird" was a broken umbrella – but what he remembered even clearer was how the world all of a sudden was there. Fuzzy lines turned sharp and organised themselves into fences, trees, buildings, roofs… It's something you remember vividly; no matter how many years that pass, you remember the first time you see the same world as everyone else.

* * *

Tip of his tongue clamped between his teeth in concentration, Shiro bent over the table while correcting his spelling and turning right letters that he had reversed. He read the dictation through once more, thoroughly, and spotted one or two additional mistakes. Then, he handed the paper back to Samael.

"Think I can pull through university like this?"

The green eyes scanned the writing - frowned at a few remaining mistakes, but ultimately…

"You still spell _quella_ as q-e-l." He left the paper to lie flat on the desk. "But if you put in the additional manual work, you can. So, with that issue solved; let's head on to the next, shall we?" he said in chipper business tones, and looked very much like a comfortable CEO seating himself for negotiation when he returned to his chair.

When a demon adopts a business tone, it means that the business is _his_ , and you are merely an employee being informed of your next task. At least that'swhat it meant in Samael's case. Rather than follow suit and sit, Shiro remained standing.

"I'm an avid supporter of sin in all its forms", Samael smiled cordially, "but at the present both you and I need to display a certain degree of virtue to pass for acceptable in the Vatican's eyes. There can be no doubt in Rome that you live in celibate and that any temptation towards the carnal is overruled by zeal."

"What makes you think I'd give them reason to doubt?" he questioned coolly.

Shiro knew the answer. He knew the answer, and he hated the saccharine smile that curled the corners of Samael's lips.

"Can't keep yer emotions in check when I'm around, Fuji~?" he mimicked, word for word, and added in the whole damn bedroom-eyes-and-seductive-voice act on top of it.

" _Don't._ Do that." Damn him and his talent for impersonation, damn his _fucking_ ability to manipulate space and make his voice sound like hers; damn his _disgusting_ habit of spying on people…! "I get your point: and you let _me_ handle that. You're not going near Kasumi." Wrong words. Forbid a demon anything and he would go out of his way to do it. "This is between you, me, and Tanzi, remember?" he said through clenched teeth. "We're the ones who chose to play this game, and you promised nobody else would get involved. Be a man of your word and let me take care of Kasumi."

"Hear the lion roar~" Samael twirled another golden caramel by its wrapping ends and snickered happily. "Very well, then. Make sure Miss Honda understands that your relation must be discontinued and the matter is out of the world."

There were many things unsaid in that airy statement. Many clauses and consequences waiting to come into effect in case Shiro _didn't_ get the matter out of the world.

" _I hope you rot in hell._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Anaptyxis** – you know when a Japanese person says "brown" and it comes out as "burown"? That's anaptyxis: inserting auxiliary vowels to make it easier to pronounce consonant clusters.
> 
> That thing about dyslexia is true. I don't know if maybe you were already aware of that, but it fascinated me to no end when I first learnt of it. It's true in the reversed case, too: Western dyslectics can find themselves "non-dyslectic" when learning, for example, Mandarin or Japanese.


	74. Out of tune

Eight years ago, Middle First Class exorcist Yana Megumi had been sent to the forested areas near Izumo on a simple mission: locate and exorcise the demon that had been stealing food – and various assorted articles like lighters, shoes and sunglasses – from visitors to the picnic sites some quarter of an hour drive into the wilderness. Izumo lay at the coast in Shimane prefecture, flanked north and south by low mountain ranges. Japan's cradle, you'd hear some call it in a moment of poetic inspiration. Archaeologists held it to be the place where humans had first arrived to the islands by boat. The area was rich in old tools, burial mounds, shrines – and shinto gods. If Izumo was the cradle where the Japanese people had risen, it was a cradle they had shared with demons.

A week after her arrival, Megumi made first contact with the demon – or half-demon, as it turned out. A short glimpse of bright red peering through the green. The half-breed had been cautious. Watched. Made some sort of hand motions and noises that indicated the stranger ought to leave. There had been no words, but neither any attempt at attacking.

Megumi's stay had lengthened. Exorcising the half-breed would have been easy enough, but something even half human can pull the heartstrings of compassion. And the half-breed had been very small, and not hostile… and after a few tentative encounters, Midori had been adopted.

Three years ago, Middle Second Class exorcist Yana Megumi had fallen in the line of duty, speared through the chest by a harpy on Hokkaido.

Nobody had known how old Midori was when Megumi found her; between eight and twelve was the closest estimation. Nobody had known when she was born, or by whom. Or if she had a name. The harvest gods of Inari were known to have married into a human family in Izumo long ago, but they knew nothing of this recent cub that clearly had more demon blood than the miko lineage of their shrine.

"Midori" was the first colour she had learnt. It had taken long and exhausting attempts by Megumi to explain that she didn't mean the grass, the leaves or her thermos when she pointed, but the _colour_ they all had; and when this finally clicked, Midori's puzzled scowl had given way to a peal of hearty laughter.

Two years ago, roughly, Sakura Midori had enrolled at True Cross Academy to follow her adoptive mother's footsteps.

Midori hadn't wanted a randomly picked birthday that wasn't her real birthday. The day she had met Megumi would have been the natural choice, but it was difficult to determine since they had glimpsed each other long before they made contact. Eventually, they had decided that every year, the day after the first cherry blossoms burst their buds would be Midori's Day. Once they had settled on that, they chose Sakura as her surname.

* * *

March was in his dying days, and the shade beneath the trees was still chilly. Real spring would be due soon. Real spring, false spring – maybe there was a difference, maybe there wasn't. One could imagine there was a tension. An excitement. Everything was getting tuned, like an orchestra preparing to play. Small creeks filled to their brims with melt water. Buds lined up on twigs, waiting for their cue to burst out green. Flowers peeked tentatively over blades of grass, not wanting to miss the signal. Everything was on edge, ready for the serenade of spring.

Shiro trekked up the forested slope in the midst of it, rustling yesteryear's dry carpet of leaves. Out of beat. Out of tune. A dissonant monotony churning downward spirals while everything else did its best to ignore it. That's the really bizarre part. When everyone pretends like nothing's out of the usual and nobody believes it.

Kasumi's scarf was enough when jackets had become too heavy in the sun. Down in the undergrowth it was different. Moist earth and cold melt water scented the air. Sharpened reflexes were triggered now and then by patches of light that swayed on the non-existent path, as wind rustled the unborn foliage above. More than once there was actual movement, when birds kicked among the brown leaves for worms and material for nest building. They froze when he passed by, eyeing the disturbance warily.

It was a beautiful spring day by all standards - the kind of day that might lead people to think of it as a charm that would keep all events transpiring that day equally pleasant.

Shiro had no such illusions. There was a tension in his step that he couldn't shake, not unlike the feeling of being summoned to the Order's Court for a hearing. There would be questions posed and judgement passed. Thoughts churned out unpleasant scenarios as he made his way up the hill. There were so many ways this could go wrong, and only one way for it to go right. Statistics is a bitch that way.

Still, he would try.

* * *

You could tell when Midori was behind the decorations. She had picked out a small clearing next to a ravine, where a thin layer of soil and lichens covered an otherwise bare outcropping of rock, and turned it into a theme park of assorted recyclables. The air was crisscrossed with everything from fishing line to hemp ropes and hung with myriads of glittering things: candle holders made of decimated soda cans, wind spinners put together from feathers, tin foil and tea spoons, and discarded plastic cups split up into wriggling jellyfish. A couple of the latter seemed to be involved in an airborne jousting fight – each had a wooden skewer stuck through its "body", and when the breeze jostled them they exchanged blows and crossed blades.

"Welcome Shiro-kun!" exclaimed a huge… bouncing… cigarette…?

Midori was wrapped head to toe in a white tube that forced her to alternately waddle and skip to get anywhere. A crippled bike helmet was squeezed down over her bright red hair, with holes made for her ears, and both ears and helmet were sprayed over with gold paint. She stopped once she'd waddle-hopped over to him, and cracked a huge, beaming grin over the rim of the tube.

"I'm a scroll!" she announced. Judging by the sound of it, that was a life-long dream come true.

Masquerade wasn't a traditional part of Midori's Day, and to amend that deficiency Midori had decided that this year would be the start of the tradition. While Shiro had expected her costume to be something outrageous, this did surpass all his guesses.

"That's brilliant", he smiled and eyed the creation up and down. "What's that made of?"

"Is old helmet, bed sheet, carbon paper, tape-"

"Cardboard paper", Sen helped. Her hair added at least half a meter to her height with the way it was combed up to form a thin, pointy bulb on her head. "And a roll-down curtain."

"And you're the brush, right?"

"Yes."

"I love the scarf, Shiro-kun! Is it present?" Midori eyed Kasumi's chimera scarf the same way she eyed a particularly tasty dessert.

"No, I'll be keeping that. You in charge of the presents?" he asked Sen, who was, after all, the one with arms. "Here. I trust Midori-chan will figure out stuff to do with it."

To his surprise, Sen began unwrapping the crudely taped present immediately, with Midori bouncing up and down with excitement. What came out of the wrapping was a two-part present: a steel cutter, and a roll of wire.

"Oooh is perfect!" she chirped through that big, brilliant smile of hers. "Thank you! Now write something, Shiro-kun!"

The scroll bounced with renewed energy, and the human brush grabbed hold of something behind Midori's back. She pulled, and the white roll-down curtain complied. There were congratulations and doodles of animals scribbled on it, and he could clearly recognise Ryuuji's rounded handwriting and Sen's thin, precise strokes. She pulled it out further until clean space came into view.

"All guests must write on the magic scroll before they can be admitted", she proclaimed sagely, and plucked a brush and an inkwell from her belt with her free hand.

"You guys really go all out with this", he chuckled and took the brush and the inkwell, but not without a look of wonder. "How many cans of hair spray did that take?"

"One, and some semen."

…There was a moment of silence… in which Shiro tried very hard to figure out what she had _really_ said… while shit-eating grins grew on Sen's and Midori's faces.

"I heard that wrong, right?" He must have. It had to be the name of some hair gel he'd never heard of.

"Face says you didn't", Midori sniggered happily. "Is perfect for hair – strong like glue, but easy to wash out."

"O…kay… just… I don't need to know how you know this, or where you got that: okay?"

"Okay, Shiro-kun", the half-demon grinned mischievously. "Now draw something!" Because his already written _Congratulations!_ was apparently not satisfactory.

Ryuuji had drawn a rather nice dragon next to his signature. Sen had painted something round and messy that was probably her goblin. Himself he didn't have much confidence in his artistic skill.

"Where is your costume, Shiro-kun?" Sen wondered in the midst of his pondering.

"Here." He tapped the butt of the brush at his face, with the lick of paint on the tip of his nose and four whiskers on each cheek. "And some here." He snuck the shaft of the brush in under his messy hair and lifted it to reveal a thin black line over the top of his ear.

"Cat?" Midori suggested.

"Guess again."

He drew a couple strokes, scrunched his nose in dismay, but once started he felt compelled to finish.

"Fox?" Sen tried.

"Nope. Can you tell what this is?" Shiro turned sideways and rocked his hips so the tail tucked inside his belt wagged a little. It was nothing elaborate: he'd procured a retired garden hose from the janitors he'd worked with last summer, cut it up and painted it white, and glued a black swab of synthetic duster to the tip.

"You're Kimba the White Lion", Sen concluded with a lazy smile.

"Very imaginative, I know. Alright, I think I need to explain this one." He corked the inkwell again, and handed the equipment back to Sen before introducing his masterpiece: "It's a lion that's been knocked flat on the ground by the fox that's now standing on him. Inspired by real events."

"Magic scroll is pleased", Midori beamed. "You may now enter."

There was an immediate change when he followed them into the rocky clearing itself. The susurrous whispers of demons that followed him day and night died away, and left everything strangely empty and quiet.

"You've put some pretty heavy wards on this place."

"Keeps demons out up to high level, m-hm~" Midori confirmed in a singing cadence that matched her bouncing walk. "Sen made much work for you."

"Thanks, guys", he smiled, but didn't relax his defenses. Satan was a level of his own. "It means a lot that you're doing this, especially sacrificing your birthday to do it."

"My Day", Midori corrected in good humour. "We're friends, Shiro-kun. Only you are stupid to think we don't help."

" _The problem is you help too much._ " Shiro pulled his thoughts off the realistic track, onto that of the optimist. Had to try. Had to hope. "Yeah, I'm the stupid one. I know."

There were no cushions to sit on in the clearing, but a huge spread of moss that had been reaped and furnished into a fuzzy picnic blanket. It smelled rich and earthy, and made the person sitting on it look completely out of place. The robes were a colour splatter that almost matched Shiro's scarf, the black hair was fastened in elaborate styles, and the face was completely covered with a mask cast to resemble the face of a beautiful woman. Seeing as there was only one more greeting on the curtain scroll beside Sen's and his own, it could only be Ryuuji, but still…

"Hi. …it's Ryuuji-san, right? That's some costume, man." Shiro took a seat in the moss, and found it pleasantly warm from the sun. "I'm guessing you're a noh theatre character, but beyond that I'm lost."

"I'm Lady Tamamo, the beautiful but evil fox spirit from _Sesshoseki_ ", came Ryuuji's voice, sounding like he was speaking in a bucket. He tried a courtly nod, but yelped when the wig slipped from the movement. "Ish, this thing just doesn't stay in place. A-anyway, I'm Tamamo, and this was the Killing Stone", he held up a regular grey rock, about the size of his palm, that had miniature shide wards tied around it with string, "until Sen-chan painted a cat face on it. Now it's the Kitty Stone." Ryuuji turned the stone around and revealed a very pleased cat face with the shide string as bandana. "And you're…? I can't see much through this mask, sorry."

"Kimba the White Lion, from the old TV series." He took a moment to get his brain back in gear for proper conversation; a mechanism of rusty, grating cogs that moved painfully slowly. "I don't think I know the story of Sesshoseki."

"Really? But we wrote about it on a test in exorcism history just this autumn?"

Shiro gave him a blank stare. He was quite sure they had never had an exam on theatre in exorcism history.

"You know, Miura and Kazusa, the founders of the Yaonaru clan?" Ryuuji tried, hoping Shiro would catch on. "The ones that defeated the nine-tailed fox so her body turned into the Killing Stone?"

"Oh, that story. I didn't know the nine-tails' name was Tamamo."

"It isn't, it's- I mean, you know what demons are like – the powerful ones, at least. Different names in different cultures, and you don't always know what their real name is. Tamamo is the most recent one. We used to call her Mizukume and Wakamo when she first came to Japan, and that was after she had left China: there she was Bao Si, and before that she was Su Daji."

"You nailed that history test, didn't you?" Shiro added a smile to the question. He recognised the tilt of the mask as Ryuuji lowering his gaze, the way he did when he didn't know what to do with the praise he received. "Anyway – the Kitty Stone looks a little like Midori-chan when she's eating something tasty, doesn't it?"

Ryuuji held the stone up and angled his head to peer out through the mask's eye slits.

"That's quite disturbing now that you say it. She's from the Shimane region, too. The real Killing Stone is up there. Maybe she's related to the nine-tails?"

"I remember from the test that the demon could take the form of a young orphan girl", said Shiro with his gravest expression.

"As Mizukume, she appeared as a little girl that was adopted", Ryuuji nodded in solemn understanding. "I think we're onto something."

"Definitely", he agreed, feeling… at least a little more in tune with the world.

"Yeah – oh, did I tell you that I went to Shimane last summer, with the music troupe? It was so cool! They're really big on folk traditions there during the harvest festivals – we had gigs every day for a week round and about the shrine area and you wouldn't _believe_ all the food they serve", Ryuuji bubbled happily. "I had hoped to see the ritual for the Killing Stone – it has its own special traditions to follow – but those aren't for the public. I tried saying that I was an exorcist student at True Cross, but they wouldn't let me watch unless I was a licensed exorcist. There's this dance called the Kamioroshi that only the shrine maiden can perform in order to appease the fox spirit, and it's supposed to be _amazing_."

"Sure sounds cool", Shiro fell in. "Should we dance to appease the spirit of the Kitty Stone?"

Ryuuji chuckled into the mask and shook his head, holding the wig in place as he did.

"I can't dance."

"That makes two of us. Seems we can't appease the Kitty Stone. What happens then?"

"Don't know. …Midori-chan might eat us?" he suggested after a moment's thought.

"Is okay: if you help me seat, I won't", Midori assured with a big grin. She was very focused on not stumbling in the moss blanket as she joined them with Sen in tow.

"Can you even sit in that?"

"I think you have to lie down. Can Kimba and Tamamo help?" asked Sen, who now had both hands occupied with a tray of simple street food snacks and single use chopsticks.

There was no practical need for two abnormally strong guys to both lower a slender girl like Midori, but for the well being of her cardboard wrapping a couple of extra hands was welcome. Sen placed the tray on the moss in the middle of their little gathering and folded her legs in under herself to sit.

"We have half an hour before Shizuku-kun comes", she announced dreamily. "Is there anything we would like to discuss before that? Please help yourselves." She gestured at the tray.

They all expressed their gratitude for the food and dug in. Ryuuji wrestled himself out of his mask, while Sen's feeding of Midori was entertainment in its own right, as her definition of "bite-sized" matched a sparrow's while Midori's definition was "as long as it fits into my mouth". Ryuuji was the first to speak when all had settled:

"So, um, from what I understand, the thing Shizu-san is angry over is that you never told us about the vessel thing, and that you knew about it and still put his sister in danger. You had your reasons for the first thing, and I can't say I blame you. But, if I'm- if I'm honest with you, Shiro-san, I…" Ryuuji bit his lip. As much as he had grown in confidence the past year, handling conflicts still made his tongue stumble. "I don't understand why you did that. I mean you really love Kasumi-senpai, right?"

Shiro plucked one of the fish-shaped taiyaki, just to have something to occupy himself with while he replied. There wasn't much to understand about it. Only that he was an irresponsible dipshit.

"Yeah. I love her." He kept his eyes on the tray of food, since that wouldn't look back at him. "It sounds bad, but I think that's the reason I did it, if I can say there was a reason at all. I'm not the cleverest guy to begin with, and falling in love makes people stupid. I _knew_ it could end bad." Bad _ly_ , he corrected himself mentally, and felt his intestines knot at the prospect of meeting the one who used to correct him when he said that. "Even then I couldn't give her up. I was selfish. And stupid." He heaved a sigh, still without having tasted the taiyaki. "And Shizuku-san has every right to hate me."

"Kasumi-san puts no blame on you, I know", Sen's sing-song voice spoke up. "Shizuku-kun believes she should. I think he feels you betrayed his trust; he welcomed you as family when you and Kasumi-san confessed to each other."

"No shit I betrayed his trust", he murmured heavily. "We've been through this. Look, _I'm_ clear on what happened – I thought this would be more of a Q &A thing for anyone who still wonders 'bout my version of the story. Or for talking about what others have been up to. I haven't kept tabs lately with all homework and that."

That sounded snappier than he had intended, but before he could apologise for it, Midori had leapt at the new topic:

"You work more than we together." She struggled against the helmet to angle her head so she could look at him. "How come, Shiro-kun? You have no more regular school."

Right. That. Well, he had to break it to them sooner or later.

"No, I don't", he agreed, buying himself time to lay his words right. For once. "As a matter of fact, I… When this all happened last year, and I took off to Faust Mansion, I was panicking." To say the least. "I didn't think I'd ever be able to talk to you guys again – I thought everyone would react like Shizuku-san. I felt it would be better for everyone if I left for a while, so I asked Mephisto if any Order branch abroad took exchange students." Shiro still hadn't touched his taiyaki, and he was starting to feel dumb sitting with it in his chopsticks, so he took a bite before he continued: "The extra classes I've been taking are in language and exorcism. I go to Rome in Italy this summer, once I get my exorcist license." One year ahead of everyone else.

That was much new information in short time – that much he could tell from the faces turned towards his own.

"To Rome?" Midori looked like he had said he would take a vacation in Gehenna. "Is bad place, Shiro-kun! Bad place with eyes who hiss and words who kill! You hurt here, but will hurt much more there!"

"Do you know something about Rome that I don't?" Shiro had expected her to be angry because he was leaving in such a way; not be frightened because of where he was going.

"Is bad place", she repeated, nailing him in to the ground with grim, worried eyes. "Like a garden. Big, beautiful garden. Some trees and flowers are let to grow, and other things are pulled out and killed because gardeners don't want them."

"It's true", Sen confirmed. There was a hardness to her eyes that made you feel scrapes and bruises form on your skin.

"But… A-are you sure that's not just about half-demons?" Ryuuji asked hesitantly, looking from one grim girl to another. "I mean, my brother told me something like that. Like, in Rome they're very old-fashioned-"

"They're blind", Midori said darkly. "Evil is of heart, not of blood or breed – but they see nothing." She turned her gaze to Shiro, and it was all wasp poison and no sunshine. "Midori is evil to them. How do you think vessel of Gehenna's God will be to them?"

"I'll find out", he replied, although none believed the artificial lightness of the statement. "In the meantime, I was hoping to sort things out here before I go. Will you help me do that?"

It had started out so well, with light talk and joking. Now it felt more like negotiation than conversation. More and more instruments coming out of tune with spring.

"You are bad at telling people things, Shiro-kun", Sen observed.

"I know." Many things couldn't be told, either. "I'm sorry I am like that. Runs in the family, you could say. That's no real excuse", he added, and meant it, "and I know I have to get better at… relying not just on myself. But I think I need a change of air, or a fresh start or what to call it. I keep getting anonymous 'fan mail' to my compartment, and the general opinion in them is that I should go somewhere else." Shiro absentmindedly picked strands of moss out of their picnic blanket. True, he still got notes and letters, but his "fame" had rarely been of the positive kind anyway. As excuses to fodder his story? Excellent material. "I'm thinking that maybe things have settled down by the time I come back. I won't be away more than a year or so."

A year and a half: that was Samael's estimation for how long it would take to complete their contract. A lot could happen in that time. Depending on how life turned out in Italy, Shiro considered staying permanently.

"I see how you think", Sen said between bites of a still steaming nikuman. "It's a good thought. Maybe Italy is not the best choice, but the idea is good. I respect your decision."

There seemed to be a consensus on that. It was a relief, in one way. In another way, he was still not telling the whole truth. Still not relying on anyone but himself.

"We've all got quirks and flaws – and that's okay, you know", Ryuuji said. "If we just accept that, we can live with it. And with each other, hopefully. I'm… I'm kind of glad that you said this. About going away to Rome." He looked down on his hands, down on slender fingers that fidgeted with the Kitty Stone. "I… I've been thinking of quitting cram school."

"You quit?" Midori turned to him in surprise.

"I think so." Ryuuji's eyes were still on the stone, gazing at a weight he didn't know whether to drop or carry. "It's not for me. I don't do well on the tests-"

"You did well on the history test", Shiro reminded.

"Because there was a play about it", he emphasised, as though trying to convince himself to listen to his own advice. "I don't… A job where people are in danger and depend on me… I'm not cut out for that. I'm not smart enough to be a Doctor in the first place and- and I can't take the pressure." There was sadness in his voice. Muted tones. Apology. "I'm… meant to play music. Not fight demons."

"If you feel like this, we support your precision."

"Decision", Sen corrected airily. "We will still see each other in regular classes, won't we?"

"Yeah…"

"Nobody's disappointed in you", Shiro spoke up, knowing what it was that still made him hesitate. "You gotta decide your own path in life. If you wanna go for music, go for music. We'll support you."

"Thanks, guys", he said with one of those guileless smiles that made you sympathise with him instantly. One of those smiles that reminded Shiro that half-demons were very different from pure-blood demons, even if they had many abilities in common. "I haven't told my brother yet, just so… you know… Don't mention it to him yet, okay?"

"We won't", Midori promised with a warm smile. Then she wiggled impatiently and tried to turn her head so she could see Sen. "More takoyaki for Midori~?"

They all used the brief pause to grab something more to eat. Except Shiro. Ryuuji had eaten the taiyaki, and Midori was quickly finishing off the takoyaki.

"Why not some nikuman, Shiro-kun?" Sen asked when she noticed he wasn't eating.

"Is it with pork?"

"Yes."

"Sorry, can't eat meat. It's Lent." They knew he was converting to Catholicism, since he had mentioned it to Sen at one point. That didn't mean they knew anything of Catholic practices. "It means you give up certain luxuries for forty four days. Like eating meat."

"Why not give up smoke?" Midori immediately suggested with a hopeful look on her face.

"Lent is about piety and cleansing oneself." He scratched his nose and pretended not to notice her expectant eyes. "Abstaining from smoking won't make me more pious, just more snappy."

"But is no sacrifice if it's not hard!" she protested with pursed lips and scrunched-up eyebrows. "Spirit of Kitty Stone is not pleased. I will-" Midori's big ears twitched. "Steps a-coming this way. Get me up! Get me up! Shizuku-kun is here!"

Half an hour had _not_ passed in Shiro's mind. According to his wristwatch, it had – but they had barely discussed anything!

" _Improvise, then._ "

Shiro had had an illustrated children's version of _Journey to the West_ when he was little. First the grow-and-shrink staff surfaced over the summit, then Shizuku's spiky hair and the magical circlet around it, and then his face, with beard and sideburns grown out to resemble those of Sun Wukong, the Monkey King. When he counted four guests in the clearing, his pace slowed momentarily.

"Welcome Shizuku-kun!" Midori bounced ahead of the rest of them to give him the same cheerful welcome they had all gotten.

"'Ello there, Midori-chan. An' happy day to ya."

Sen flowed forward with her small, small steps to accept the gift and roll out the scroll.

Shiro had no problem keeping himself calm and level-headed. But he had no idea what would happen when the curtain rolled back in and he would be face-to-face with Shizuku again. First time in eight months.

Shizuku didn't know what would happen either: Shiro knew that the moment the curtain slapped back inside the rig on Midori's back. The pilgrim wasn't happy to see him, that much was sure. Dissonance echoed in the silence, waiting for a string to snap in either of the two. However, circumstances set different rules for their disagreement. It was Midori's Day, and to ruin it with hostile arguments was against those rules.

"That's one great Tamamo outfit, Ryuuji-san", he began in what was almost a casual manner. "What's yer costume?" His eyes shifted to Shiro without really looking at him.

"Kimba the White Lion. It's a TV series from when I was little", he added, remembering that Shizuku hadn't had access to a TV when he grew up. "I would've grown a beard mane, but unlike you I don't have the genetics. You really look like Sun Wukong."

"Come and sit everyone!" Midori urged and bounced towards the moss blanket. "We still have cake to eat!"

Sen padded away to fetch the cake, and Shiro and Ryuuji once more lowered Midori down on her back. Meanwhile, Shizuku struck up a conversation with Ryuuji about theatre and showed no intention of speaking more with Shiro.

"Shizuku-san, we should at least try to talk."

"I am talkin' – in the middle of a conversation, in fact", he replied without even looking at him.

"Actually, Shizu-san…" Ryuuji interrupted. "It would be better if you talked to him. Everyone thinks so." He sought Shiro and Midori for support before his eyes flicked back to Shizuku. "You used to be best friends. Everyone's sad to see you like this. Don't you think you can just… talk?"

"Does 'e have anything ta say, then?"

The look he gave Shiro when he finally looked at him didn't expect anything worth listening to. You listen to friends. Not traitors.

"Nothing that's gonna change what happened", he admitted. "I want you to know that I'm sorry for being an idiot and for-"

"She made ya that scarf: didn't she?" Curt. Clipped. Shizuku wasn't interested in anything Shiro could say.

"Yes, she did." He had expected Shizuku to notice, after all. "Kasumi-chan is a better woman than I'll ever deserve. I can't see why she'd want me, or forgive me for what happened. But she does." Shiro wet his lips, tried to relax his senses and reach for the right words; tried to listen in to that intuition that had come with the imprint. "And-"

"She shouldn't."

"No, I agree she shouldn't, but-"

"An' you shouldn't put 'er in danger again", he bit off coldly.

Wonderful. No intention whatsoever to have a dialogue: none.

"Alright, you don't wanna listen to me", Shiro concluded, keeping his voice carefully neutral. "Then I'll listen to you instead."

No use in pushing if the opponent's pushing, too: better yield and let him steer. With any luck, it'll confuse them enough to break the stalemate.

"…I don't want ya anywhere near my sister", Shizuku stated after the initial puzzlement. "I don't care if she's the one that seeks ya out. She's too smitten with ya te have any sense o' self-preservation left, so it's yer call ta stay the fuck away from her."

"I will. I've learnt my lesson, but back then I was the same", he jumped at the opportunity. "Too much in love to take the risks seriously: that's why things-"

"There was no risk fe' _you_ ", Shizuku snapped, shoulders tense and neck strained, like a dog about to lunge. "Ya didn't love 'er enough ta think about _her_. Ya saw 'er, didn't ya? Must have. Ya see how thin she is? Ya see what yer 'love' did ta her?"

"I saw her. If it makes you any happier, I won't be seeing her again. I already told the others: I'll be going to Rome as an exchange student, starting this summer. It's-"

"First ya cripple her, then ya leave her – what kind'o fucking _demon_ are ya?!" the pilgrim snarled between his teeth, hair looking more and more like raised hackles on his head.

"You don't want me near her, you don't want me to leave her: why don't you just say what you _want_ from me, Shizuku?"

Frustration. Like steam in a teapot. Shizuku wasn't making sense – not to himself, either.

"Midori doesn't understand either, Shizuku-kun", said the scroll down in the moss. "If not leave and not stay, what-"

"I wanna know what the fuck this is about!" he blurt out just as Sen returned with the cake. "I wanna know what the fuck all of this is about!" He gestured wide with both arms. "Satan's vessel, super strength, barriers failing – an' _you_!" he snarled. "Ye just stand there in the middle o' all this an' say nothin'! What the fuck are ya? What does my sister have ta do with all this? Why does she like ya when ye're not even human?!"

"I'm human; you know that."

"Nothing says a human can't love a demon", Sen objected sharply.

But Shizuku wasn't in the mood to listen.

"Why don'tcha start telling the truth, hah?!" he spat. One palm in the moss. Ready to spring up and take physical action when his temper reached boiling point. "Ye're not normal, ya never were, an' ya knew that right from the fuckin' start! Pheles handpicked ya fer cram school _years_ later than normal an' ya just _happen_ ta be the vessel o' Satan?! 'E gives ya private lessons an' bails yer ass out when the Order should'a had ya locked up, an' I'm sapposed ta think this is all _coincidence_ , hah?! While ye're usin' us as fuckin' _cannon fodder_ fer-"

"Pheles chose you?" Midori asked in dead tones.

"You've been talking with _Kita_?" Kita knew about his late enrolment, but that Shizuku would even consider being in the same room with that guy… "You expect him to tell you anything but conspira-"

"I talked ta Saburota, an' conspiracy 's _exactly_ what I think this is!" He slammed his fist down on his thigh. "Ye're Pheles' half-human attack dog an' we're the bloody guinea pigs 'e's training ya on!"

"Shiro-kun, what is he talking about?"

"Half-? Do you _hear_ yourself, Shizuku?" he snapped, muscles tensing to meet the lunge when it came. It would come. There was no way this wouldn't get physical. "You seriously think I _mean_ to hurt people? You're completely-"

"Explain the barrier failure then!" he challenged, eyes black and teeth bared. "You an' Pheles rush down ta the Keep an' Saburota's cousin turns up dead from a sword wound! An' _you_ had a sword!"

"He was dead when I got there!" Shiro retorted. "You can think whatever the fuck you want of me, but killing somebody is a line I'll never cross!"

"Really?! Ya could risk my sister's life fe' yer own goddamn entertainment – makes one wonder where that line goes!"

"Know what other guy down there had a sword?!" Katsuda Agari. But she had officially not been in Deep Keep. "Inoue Katsu, the other guard!" The other assassin Knight. "The guy that got killed by demons before we could capture him and question him!"

"An' wasn't that convenient fo' ya! Dead men tell no tales do they?!"

"Inoue-san didn't have a sword", Ryuuji spoke, confused and afraid and with eyes that were too big and too honest to look at. "He was my brother's friend. He- he used a khakkhara."

"Normally", Shiro lied without missing a beat. "That day-" He ducked instinctively when Shizuku's staff swooped at his head. " _So much for that._ "

But the fight never broke out. Midori shredded herself out of the cardboard paper in seconds, and Sen's goblin appeared with a muffled bang. Both Shiro and Shizuku were restrained and dragged away from each other.

"Ye're lying! You an' Pheles, lying like fuckin' pookas!"

"You are noisy", Sen observed as she padded into the stretch between them. "Shizuku-kun has good questions", she said, eyes ghosting over the panting pilgrim in the goblin's claws. "Do you have good answers?"

'Good' would be stretching it. 'Decent' maybe.

"I'm human. I'm not conspiring with Mephisto. I didn't kill Saburota's cousin. I wanted to save Inoue-san, but I couldn't. What happened in Deep Keep is classified, so I can't tell you details, no matter how much I'd like to. I didn't mean to hurt your sister, and I'm really sorry I did", he rattled off in short but composed sentences. "I will transfer part of my monthly salary to her at your mom's handicraft centre, to cover the income she's losing. If there's anything else I can do, please tell me so."

Mistake. Wrong turn, wrong line crossed. A noxious mix of anger, contempt and insult contorted the pilgrim's features: crippled or able-bodied, the Hondas were craftsmen. They were not beggars.

"Keep yer money", Shizuku hissed. "An' stay in Rome."

The birdsong jarred the silence and grated in the ears. There shouldn't be birdsong. There shouldn't be anything. The argument was dead, the silence final, the serenade quiet.

"Shiro-kun, did Sir Pheles want you in cram school?"

Only Sen could speak in a silence like that. He had never been able to define what set her apart or what made her eerie, but maybe that was it. She was like the silent pause in an argument. The eye of calm in the storm, the split second of numbness between blade biting flesh and pain hitting the nervous system.

"He thought I had potential", Shiro replied, straining to recall what story he had made up when he enrolled. "He saw me chase off some low-level thing and told me about cram school. I said I'd give it a go, so he arranged a late entry. That's it."

His arms were starting to feel numb. Everything was starting to feel numb, and he just wanted to get away from it. Get away, and all would be fine.

Flight instinct is incredibly simple-minded.

"Do you think he knew you were compatible with Satan when he asked you to join?" Sen asked.

Shiro clenched his teeth around the bitter smile that threatened to twitch in his lips.

"I don't know. Maybe."

Birdsong crept down his spine again, cheerful and heartless. With some hesitation, Midori released his arms; at a nod from Sen, the goblin released Shizuku's. After that, nothing happened. Nothing said. Nothing done. The strawberry cake sat forgotten in the moss, candles still lit and wax dripping on the pastry. Shreds of Midori's costume had landed in it and splattered whipped cream and berries out on the tray.

A weight more discordant than the birdsong settled in the pit of his stomach.

"I'm sorry I ruined you Day", Shiro murmured softly, turning to glance at Midori. She shook her head, shook it free of upbeat hopes and levelled her gaze somberly at reality.

"Is we who are sorry for you."

He didn't ask what she meant. It didn't matter. They were out of his reach, far away in a world on the other side of lies and conspiracies. Even if he could, even if he had that choice, he wouldn't pull them into the world he lived in. It had already tainted their thoughts, he could tell from the way they looked at him. Tainted them with questions that shouldn't be asked.

"I should be going", he said, speaking to himself more than to his classmates. He swept an eye over them all: Ryuuji, fidgeting with his robe hem and not knowing how to handle a situation like this; Midori, mourning without tears; Sen, unreadable and unapproachable as a temple statue; Shizuku… "Thank you for inviting me. Maybe we can speak some other time."

That feeling again. Light-headed, as if he were floating a few centimetres above his body when it walked. Suspended, drifting, out of tune; waiting to crash down hard, as he had after signing Samael's contract.

Couldn't have that kind of slip-up. Retain control at all costs.

Shiro whipped a cigarette out of the packet. Nicotine seemed like a good start. Focus, channel: ease the pressure. Breathe. Focus. Breathe…

_Hi again._

_I screwed up. Again._

_Though when I think back on it, I'm not sure there was a chance of not screwing up._

_Shizuku's never gonna change his mind. I understand how he feels, though…_

_Fuuuuuuuuck how did this- How does it even_ get _this complicated?_

_One thing's certain, though: leaving is the only option. My life is fucked in every way here._

_Look, god… Just give me one thing that doesn't blow up in my face, okay? One thing. Like, a cat. Or a turtle. Something I don't have to keep up pretences for. A bloody canary would do. We're not allowed pets at the dorm in Rome, so a cat would be nice._

_Yeah yeah, just pouring my mind out like a drunkard in the park – I know. It's not like I've ever given a proper prayer anyway. It just gives my thoughts someplace to go, okay? It's like having a flock of scared birds in my head. Round and round in circles and never settle. This way I can slow down. Get a sense of how things stand and where I stand._

_…I wouldn't mind it if you answered, though._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Pookas** are Celtic trickster spirits/shape-shifters known to be notorious liars.
> 
> If it looks strange that Megumi's rank is higher when she finds Midori than it is when she dies, that is because she was demoted for insubordination when she adopted the demon instead of exorcising it. =)


	75. Bad apple

"So~ about your very important homework assignment…?"

"Jacopo", he replied curtly over the red cover of the catechism in his hands.

Shiro had made a habit of arriving at the tower room before Samael did. It gave a sense of control to be there first, to claim it as his before the demon could. Subtle things like that hadn't mattered before – he hadn't even _noticed_ such things before. Cynicism is funny that way. Makes you start seeing details. Makes you read the fine print of how people act – makes you read _people_. There's little things that betray unease and doubt, or reveal confidence behind a mask of hesitation. Little things that say a lot, if your eye is sharp and your reading skills good.

Cynicism, or just learning from a very talented teacher?

Samael sat in his chair as if it were a throne, idly confident that everything in its vicinity was his to lord over: as he always sat. He had waited, head cocked to the side and fingers steepled in his lap, for an elaboration beyond a mere name – had _expected_ that elaboration. Shiro knew, but that didn't mean he would comply. Not unless explicitly asked.

"Jacob." There was no special intonation as Samael spoke it, no fine print to interpret. "Why?"

"It exists in Italian, and I can say it", he responded. No longer reading, but neither did he look up from his catechism.

People should be able to understand when he introduced himself, and not butcher his name when they used it: those were the two simple, functional criteria that needed to be met. If they were, all was good.

"Your degree of pragmatism is simply stunning." And functional was not a word Samael would ever be associated with. "Have you paid any attention at all to the etymology and phonetics of the name you intend for yourself? The name you will be called by _every single day_ in Rome?"

Oh, Shiro paid attention. The attention a hawk pays to the movements of the field mouse. Samael had shaped him that way, hammered and embossed him with words and schemes until he had become as shrewd as the demon was, and as the holy scriptures say: a man reaps what he sows. So when Shiro closed the book and retorted, he made sure to huff irritably as he did.

"It's just a charade: you know that as well as I do."

"Indeed: and in order to convince, a charade must be played with full devotion. At least _try_ to put some muscle into it, Shiro: you don't _look_ like a Jacob", he whined, his gestures impatient. Like a kid that didn't get the sweets he wanted.

"What do I look like, then?" he said testily, following the social dance they had initiated.

There was no swift, witty reply to that. Nor was there any cheeky smirk or mischievous glint of absinthe green. No, Samael just… looked at him.

Midori had done that, once – looked at him as if reading the story of his life woven into is skin. Keratin runes. Organic tapestry. Only, this time was different. Samael could see it, he was sure: time. See how it flowed and bent around his limbs, engraved his skin with the crinkled calligraphy of life and dug out a designated path before his feet.

Vertigo. It's like vertigo, to be scrutinised like that. To be stripped of every thread of flesh, unwound down to the last particle that sheltered his heart and mind, and left naked to the touch of that green scalpel gaze. A gaze that dissected to determine the cause of death before it occurred. Soft, hypnotising: gentle, like a blind man reading facial features through his fingertips. It touched his desires, his wishes; tasted his fears and sampled his secrets. Intimate. Dangerous. The kind of soil addiction thrives in.

_moth unto flame_

And in the back of Shiro's mind, a suspicion that refused to die. A maggot carving the thought over and over into the walls of his skull: that the moth was slave to its own nature. That it wasn't fallacy of reason that drew it towards death, but reason bested by _instinct._ Instinct that wasn't his. Touch that wasn't physical. Touch of something alien and powerful that reached out to feel, taste, kindle the fires of destruction…

" _Holy father, if you exist at all: don't let him notice._ "

…straight through his mental shields.

Names are powerful things. Most had far more elaborate stories behind their names than Shiro did, with kanji carefully arranged according to seimei handan and other superstitious practices. Names could bring good fortune or bad, tradition had it. Could decide one's personality and destiny. Even demons, it seemed, considered names important.

And some more than others.

Shiro returned the scrutiny. Silently. An apprentice imitating the master. Know your enemy. Know his weapons. Adapt. That was what he would have to do to best that conniving bastard. Fine clothes, beard impeccably trimmed, gloves custom fitted like second skin – every aspect of Samael's appearance was meticulously groomed, like the anglerfish evolved to lure its prey close. An archetype devil straight out of the books, charming and smooth-tongued, and rotten to the core. A model son for the god of demons.

So why the cursed name? When names were of such importance in the demon world, why would Satan pick something like that for his firstborn so-

"Alexander."

Shiro hadn't heard the silence above the noise of his thoughts, but when Samael finally spoke his mind stilled. There was no doubt that Samael had once been Hermes, the god of eloquence. Wreaths of honeyed poetry flowed from his mouth when he so wished: and when he so wished, a single word could leave his lips and carry stories lifetimes long.

"Alexander." Shiro tasted the name, trying to recapture the flavour it had had when Samael spoke it. Against his own wishes, it did feel… right. " _Of course it does. He took a good look before he made up his mind._ " Focus. Play the game. "Is there an Italian version?"

"That would be Alessandro."

"Alessandu… Alessandro." The name settled on his tongue, and Shiro shifted imperceptibly in his chair. Let's see, then, if he could play this game and win… "Why's that better than Jacopo?" he asked with defensive curtness.

In the opposite chair Samael blinked, as if he couldn't understand why that wasn't obvious.

"Alexander suits you: Jacob does not."

"Is that because you couldn't defeat him?"

Some smiles are daggers; some questions are, too.

Shiro's response had been just a tad too sharp, just a tad too quick. Around them the tower room fell quiet, missed a beat as its Renaissance interior stiffened at the breach of conversational form. He had overstepped the lines, yes. He had initiated an offensive move, and the game was on.

"My my, someone has been studying most industriously for his adoption amongst the Lord's children. Going beyond the required literature, even~" Pleased. Pleased to see that his apprentice was picking up on lessons other than Italian.

Sometimes, daggers miss.

"Alexander suits you, because it's a name standing high on the shoulders of history." Samael's voice was soft with satisfaction, like a cat curling its tail around itself to nap. "Kings, popes, conquerors – Alexander is the name of men who possess power both spiritual and martial: men who rise above their peers as leaders and defenders of mankind."

" _That's an impressive load of bullshit, even for you._ " Play it cool. Don't listen to a demon's words. "When Jacob had sent away his people, an angel wrestled all night with him, to no avail: and when dawn came, the angel begged him to be released", he said matter-of-factly.

Oh yes, there was a barely visible twitch in Samael's hair curl: _beg_ was another word he would never want to associate with. The embers of victory flared in Shiro's chest for a moment, but he subdued them. He hadn't won this game yet, and believing even for a moment that he had could spell failure.

"Angels didn't really have any reason to suddenly pick a fight with a shepherd, or wish to flee before dawn", he continued, then paused. Time to see what measure of truth legends were fashioned from. "But Jacob was on bad terms with his brother, and that brother had a guardian angel: named Samael."

"Hardly damning evidence."

The demon didn't even blink. Kept the middle ground between disappointment and biding one's time to see if there was more to come. Well. There was.

"Jacob asked the angel to speak its name, and the angel led the conversation off without answering. Kinda strange behaviour, for a messenger from god." Keep it casual. Don't let him suspect where this was going. "Kinda like you, when I asked if you didn't like the name Jacob because of that story."

"Ihihihahaaa you're wonderful, Shiro! Absolutely wonderful!" He tossed his head back and clapped, cheering him on. The sharp sound echoed awkwardly alone against the tower walls, out of synch with the hearty guffaws. Samael didn't mind. Didn't mind at all, because his toy had tried a new, amusing trick.

Good. Focus on the dagger and you might not notice the arrow aimed at your back. Shiro sat through it, unmoving, assessing the progress of the game carefully. After all, it's not what you say, but how you say it.

"A fearsome exorcist will grow out of you, no doubt about it~" Samael wore the look of one who had been promised a very pleasant Christmas gift and could hardly wait to rip it open. "You'd do well to watch that lovely mouth of yours around Father Igarashi, little lion. Weaving words like a demon is hardly a sign of having been touched by the Holy Spirit; neither is thirsting for revenge."

Thirsting – good word. Good word for the gush of heated replies that sizzled in Shiro's throat.

"But~ diligence should not go unrewarded", he continued, making a show of his magnanimous state of mind. "It's true as you say, that I held my hand over Esau, and wrestled with his brother Jacob to test his resolve. I posed as god for the Greeks and prophet for the Muslims." He flashed his smuggest, toothy grin: the kind of grin you wear, when you've successfully played mankind for fools across three religions. "Why wouldn't I pose as angel for Christians?"

It made perfect sense, of course: the very reason all exorcists were taught never to listen to a demon's words. Lies that sound like truth twist your head, so don't listen. That's the simple way.

Shiro knew demons better than that. Shielding yourself from their words is one thing, redirecting the attack is another. Demons used humanity's weaknesses against them: why not employ the same tactics? Let their prized silver tongues whisper. Then make them choke on them.

_Never listen to a demon's words: and listen closely for the words it avoids to speak._

"That would be most appropriate for someone named Poison of God." Casual, flippant: the apprentice imitating the master. "No wonder other demons consider you cursed, your highness."

Yes.

The tower shivered, stiffened, held its breath. Ripples on the surface, a small, small quake in the demon's control; cracks in the flawless façade.

_Yes._

"Diligent, but rash." Yes. The Samael behind the whimsical, eccentric persona Mephisto Pheles. "Mark well that Knowledge is useless when incomplete - detrimental, even, if employed in that state."

So soft, that voice; so smooth you'd almost think his tongue was really made of silver. It was a voice that trailed goose bumps over Shiro's skin, slithered slowly up his spine, tingled every quivering nerve end on its way to tenderly crush the breath out of his throat.

"I am the Poison of God; that is true. However, I am also the Potion of God." Shiro blinked. Po...tion…? "Life saver, death dealer: mine is a double-edged name, cursed by men and demons since ancient times for its treacherous design. For while a Serpent's venom can bestow salvation", he smiled, a lazy but lethal fire flickering in the green eyes, "it can also mean fatality."

That smile. A smooth crescent of a reaper's blade, standing by to cut: and when Samael vanished from the chair, Shiro had to employ all composure he had not to flinch. His breath caught in his throat, hid there to escape whatever retailation Samael had in mind.

"As you are well aware, with your tutoring for Doctor", silken breath touched his ear, tugged his hairs on end; "the sole difference between potion and poison is Knowledge of how the substance works."

Still. A moth camouflaged against tree bark. Sit very still, or that smooth voice would become an edge that traced crimson kisses over his throat. Swift. Soft. Intimately lethal.

No more words came. No other presence accompanied his own. Samael was gone, and the tower room slowly resumed breathing, slowly nudged its rattled bricks and windowpanes back in place.

"Flashy bastard…" he muttered, rising and stretching to get his own tense body back in order. For all that idiotic drama, he really could make one's skin crawl when he wanted to. Or when Shiro wanted to.

There were still choices. Small, insignificant ones, but hell: even bound dogs can bite.

Samael enjoyed defiance, Shiro knew that. Enjoyed the challenge and enjoyed the satisfaction of grinding his opponent's face into the dirt beneath his boot. It was a childish mind-set, one where every rule could be bent in order to win. A mind-set where defeat equalled insult, and sealed his opponent's fate with the crest of utter destruction.

There was a high probability that Samael enjoyed dogs that bit, for the prospect of taming them.

Screw what he enjoyed. Shiro was not tame, was not his pet, and would use whatever means he had to show he wasn't going to cooperate beyond the minimum the contract required. The moment he stopped being defiant… then Samael would have won. And he would be nothing but a dog that obediently wore its collar.

Poison and potion?

"Always answering a question by creating new ones."

Shiro put a cigarette to his lips. Flicked the lighter a couple times. Drew a hot, tangy breath, soothing lungs that trembled with delighted aftershocks from his stunt. The smoke meandered upwards, slowly, vanishing beneath the painted stars. _Bellum Fatum Vita Mori_ , death and life, war and fate, plastered all the way around the tower room like a warding circle. Death dealer…

…life saver?

Tch, Samael was right. His knowledge about the name had been nowhere near complete. He could've made better use of it if he'd known more, rather than this blind stab…

Potion and poison?

"And knowledge is the only way of telling which is which. 'S that an invitation to keep digging, Sammy…?" he asked the empty room.

No need for an answer: curiosity always kills the cat. A lion is just a bigger cat - harder to kill. Turning each and every aspect of human nature against humanity, that was the expertise of demons. And in order to turn that nature against them:

"Pfft, Knowledge…" he snorted through a crooked smile, tapped ashes off on the table and drew another stabilising breath of smoke. "That's serpent venom too, isn't it? Right dosage and you live, wrong and you die. Just like that old tale of…"

The smoke trail swept away in the wake of his silent chuckles. It _was_ a funny association – although, as he rolled the cigarette absentmindedly between his fingers, that unpleasant feeling of premonition crept up his spine. That feeling of big, dark shadows – _old_ shadows – moving beneath the surface of still waters.

"…Adam and Eve." The trail of smoke danced to his breath; writhed like a certain reptile famed for its smooth speech. "Serpent venom and silver tongue. And humans that don't have the Knowledge to realise their mistake before it's too late." He sucked a breath on the cigarette; fed nicotine and tar to the healthier of his addictions. " _There's a measure of truth in legends alright._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Seimei handan** is the practice of telling fortune based on a person's full name and the number of strokes it contains.
> 
> I don't know if it's something Kato missed during her research on Catholicism, or if she just didn't mention it, but for Shiro to become a Catholic priest he must first, obviously, convert to Catholicism. (Alternatively have been born into it, but I doubt that: only an approximate 0.5% of the Japanese population are Catholic.) Such a conversion includes baptism, where you must be baptised with a Christian name – so I suppose my Shiro now gets an unofficial middle name. ^_^
> 
>  **The "sam(a)-" part of the Hebrew name Samael** can be read as either poison or potion, which I think is an excellent way of summing up Mephisto's nature. Now, as some of you may already know, there's more than two ways of reading "sama": and don't worry. We'll get there. ;) I just wish to say that I love you, Kato, for picking Samael as Mephisto's true identity, with the schmexy cocktail of linguistic material that comes with that name. QwQ
> 
>  **Jacob wrestling with an angel** is one of the more well-known Biblical stories (even I knew of it), but what caught my eye when I read it through more carefully were the strange details of the angel's behaviour. "Let me go, for the day is breaking"? Is there any direct reason an angel would worry about daybreak? (If you know, please feel free to tell me, for to me it just looks peculiar.) And when Jacob entreats "Please tell me your name", the angel merely replies "Why is it that you ask my name?" and then blesses him and leaves. Now, if we look at this story from the perspective of AnE-verse, and the perspective of a certain someone who has a habit of not using his real name, I would very much suspect that angel wasn't really an angel…
> 
> "Demon, angel, acala… They're all just names humans decided to give us." – Ucchusma, Kyoto arc.
> 
> I doubt the fight itself was of physical nature; evidently, all the angel has to do to immobilize Jacob is lightly touch his hip and pop goes the caput femoris; and to be fair, I don't think any human would stand a chance against a demon/angel in a physical fight. (Why would an angel want to test somebody's physical strength anyway? God is only interested in spiritual strength.) I think it was a fight between minds, to test Jacob's "inner strength" – which apparently was more than Samael could handle. ;P


	76. Scrutiny

Forty days and nights, the Son of God fasted in the wilderness, away from all luxuries of what was then modern life. He resisted Satan and his temptations, and returned pure and strengthened to deliver the Word of God to the world. In commemoration of this, Christians observe forty days of fasting where they give up certain luxuries, amongst which one is the consumption of meat. Lent is a time for prayer, atonement, repentance of sin, and penance – and especially important for those who delve deeper into their conscience in preparation for receiving Christ.

* * *

_Four days to go, still no lightning bolt. One hell of a patience you've got, if that show I put on for the third Scrutiny's exorcism didn't piss you off. You gotta admit that part of the ritual's funny, though. At least when you know what possession looks like._

_Penance… I think I need more than forty four days for that. What's with forty four anyway? In the book it's only forty. Did mankind degenerate that much, that_ _we need longer to repent?_

_I don't feel like I'll ever be forgiven, no matter how much I regret things. Might be 'cause I don't actually believe in you._

And yet, prayer had become a habit.

 _I need to tell_ someone _, don't I? Humans need that. 's why we invented you. So someone could listen to our problems and tell us it'll be alright, even when it feels like everything's gonna go to hell. Which it usually does, or maybe that's just me._

_I've been thinking 'bout what Samael said. About Knowledge and that… If I'd just known more about the circumstances down there in Deep Keep I would've made a different choice, and they'd still be alive._

And Samael wouldn't.

_It's not just me it's about. It's… tch, isn't about me in the first place. I just like to think that 'cause I'm a self-centered idiot. Knowledge will mean life or death for people around me, too. I can regret for forty four days or forty four years, and it won't make any difference whatsoever: Knowledge will._

Not for the past. Not for the wrongs paved in stone on the path behind him. The future… The future he would shape, as far as that was possible; for his own sake and for others'.

_I'm fucking tired of not being able to do anything. That's gotta be what sucks the most – just not being able to do anything or change anything. If I wanna change things I gotta hoard up Knowledge, like he does. So I can make the right choice next time._

Choice and consequence - how simple they pretended to be when you stood before them. It was never simple. He could never just take his chances and act on gut feeling. Could never let emotion obstruct his judgement; and to be able to make a judgement, he needed to know the parameters of the situation. He needed Knowledge.

_…It's not easy to admit he's right, you know: I think I deserve some credit for doing it anyway. If someone was actually listening, that is. It pisses me off to admit it. Practical example right there; emotion getting in the way of judgement. Can't have that. So I'll admit it: he's right. He's a fucking cunt, but he's a smart fucking cunt who knows what he's talking about._

Samael _knew_ : that was the essence of it. He knew a whole lot of things, and because he knew how they worked he could make them work in his favour.

 _And because he isn't blinded by emotion. I'm too rash – always been too rash. So I've been thinking: I'm not gonna be able to change anything unless_ I _change, right? I can't turn this game around if I don't learn to play it cool and know what I'm doing before I do it._

If there was such a thing as turning the game around: and if he wanted to do it.

Shiro's eyes idly traced the creases and lines on his hands, clasped before him on the open book on his desk. He had always relied on those hands. He was the kind of person who _acted_ , not _contemplated_ , but it was high time he got used to doing both. He wanted to turn the tables and pay Samael back for what he'd done: but was that a wise choice? There was only misery ahead on that path. It would mean no friends or special someones that Samael could use to pressure him. It would mean endless feints and stabs until one of them surrendered – or fell.

" _Limit the damage we do. That would be better. Inhibit him and limit the damage, but don't challenge him; that would be the smart choice._ "

 _No_ , said the burning, clenching coils in his gut. No, he wanted revenge, wanted Samael to feel what he felt, _wanted_ to oppose the smug little cocksucker.

Shiro closed his eyes and drew a slow breath, in through his nose and out through his mouth. Feelings don't think, but they're damn persistent about what they want.

" _Rash idiots follow their feelings_ ", he reminded himself, drawing another slow breath to clear his head of flitting bird wings. " _It was fun being a rash idiot, but times change._ "

He opened his eyes, and lifted his gaze from the clasped hands to the bright April day outside the dorm room window. There were leaves on every tree now. The air was dotted with flies and birds that caught them, and flowers bulging over the edges of the Academy's ceramic pots as Spring dressed up in her finest clothes to wake the world with warmth. And Fujimoto Shiro saw none of it. His mind was black and white, checkerboard squares in straight rows where every move required knowledge and patience.

" _Knowledge and patience_ ", he repeated to himself, weighing the words like daggers in his mind. " _That's what I need._ "

"Good day, Fujimoto-san", said a voice as smooth and impersonal as the curt click when the door closed behind it.

Saburota had become that lately. Smooth. A strange contrast to his earlier square mind and sharp edges.

Perhaps there were the same checkerboard squares in his mind, shaping him for stealth rather than direct confrontation?

"'day, Todo-senpai", Shiro replied without even turning in his chair to face him.

By silent agreement, the conversation ended there. Amputated – if you could say that of something that hadn't begun growing in the first place. A haze of verbal skirmishes and stuttered disagreements had made him and Saburota develop a shallow, bland kind of interaction: the kind of interaction people use when they have nothing to say to each other. When tolerance grows out of the ruins of understanding.

"I'm going out for a smoke", Shiro announced without expecting an answer.

"Congratulations."

Shiro stopped at the door. Saburota was seating himself and unpacking his suitcase, showing no sign that he was having a conversation.

"To the conversion", he enlightened, taking the silence as his cue to elaborate.

"It's not until Saturday." Why was Saburota bringing this up?

"I know. It's decided that you are ready for it, which is in itself an achievement. I was notified that Sir Pheles was pleased by your swift progress."

"Yeah. Thanks."

Shiro opened the door and left before the conversation went any further. Words had taken on a new dimension of meaning since Samael showed his true colours. Words that people chose spoke of what went on in their minds, in millions of finely tuned nuances. Words like "progress": advancement. Movement on a scale of given directions, towards the one desired; towards a goal. A goal Sir Pheles was pleased to see him approach. Saburota hadn't given up the chase, no. Just continued it in less overt forms.

" _Like me_ ", he observed coolly, and lit his cigarette the moment fresh spring air touched his face.

Ironic. If Shiro hadn't been bound hand and foot to Samael, he would have supported Saburota's questioning. And if he hadn't been tied down by the contract, he would never have known what Samael was really like, and would have protected his secrets out of friendship. And god was one sadistic son of a bitch.

" _If there's a god at all._ " Can you doubt something you've never believed? Yes, no - whatever. Shiro doubted. Samael had been a god to the Ancient Greek, and to many others. " _What's to say the Christian god is any different?_ " he thought, tapping ashes to the ground.

It was a thought that had drawn nurture from his Bible studies instead of being expelled by them. A thought that could neither be proven nor disproven, at that. The worst kind of thought.

" _Testing humans with no explanation, blessing one and cursing another, calling down fire and plague when something isn't to his liking._ " An orange cat glared at him from the low brick wall marking the dorm premises. Glared the way only cats can. " _Sounds like just another demon king._ "

Stop. Just… stop.

Shiro sat down on his haunches, held the cigarette between his fingers and made low, clicking sounds with his tongue against his palate. The cat dismissed him as just another dumb human and jumped down on the other side of the wall.

"Fine, don't bother", he muttered and drew another breath on his cigarette.

If only you could gas certain thoughts…

Every time his thoughts wandered down that trail, he could feel the ground dissolving under his feet; could feel the abyss wake within, yawn and stretch and swallow the world. There could be no god at all, and that was fine. He could go on without a god. He could rely on his own two hands. But if there was going to be a god, it was going to be someone – some _thing_ – that didn't play with meat dolls and threw them away when they weren't fun anymore.

If it was just another demon hiding behind lies…

Stop.

Shiro forced himself to think of the first other thing that came to mind: Saburota, unsurprisingly. Saburota was diligent as ever, the way you are when work is the drug that keeps your mind in one piece. They'd both sit quiet at their desks through the small hours, reading and scribbling. Or pretending to do so. Sometimes, scribbling was only heard from one of the two desks. Sometimes, when Saburota was lost in his own flitting maze of bird wing thoughts, Shiro could catch glimpses of familiar shadows in the stoic, freckled face; glimpses of the need to know that ate at the youngest Todo son.

The need to know. Poison and potion. Knowledge.

" _Knowledge and patience._ " Shiro blew smoke up at the sky, squinting through the bright sunlight that made his eyes gleam red. " _I hope you get the right dose of each, Todo-senpai. I hope we both do._ "


	77. History

Water. Salt. Fire. For ages, humans had relied on these to purify and banish evil. Funny, though. How and why these things worked remained unknown. Most were just grateful that they did, not bothering to question. Most shrugged and accepted it, perhaps attributing it to the power of god.

The power of god…

Iblis was supreme ruler of Fire. Egyn commanded Water. Salt was of the earth, a mineral, and under Prince Amaimon's reign. Each with the power to counter and vanquish other Princes' forces according to the chart of demonic elements. Each with the power to purge and purify.

The power of… gods…?

" _A fine addition I'll make to your fold._ " He'd thought so in the church, the small familiar church where the parishioners came together each Sunday. He'd thought it loud and clear as he had approached the altar, but the starved image of the saviour on the crucifix above it hadn't seemed to hear him.

It never did.

Water, salt and fire: baptism and confirmation. The initiation rites of Catholicism had all the hallmarks of the Pagan beliefs they sought to purge him of.

The Paschal candle – image of Christ, guiding flame of the world – had cast its light on him and on the congregation. It had cast its reflection on the holy water that would wash away his sins in one of the highlights of Easter Vigil: the welcoming of new lambs into the flock. Before that candle he had renounced sin and Satan. Before the parishioners he had professed his faith in Christ, the only son, Saviour of the world. Before the bishop who blessed the contents of the ornate baptismal fount he had pronounced the name under which he wished to be reborn into the fold of the Lord:

Alexander. He who defends and protects.

Words and vows had poured from his mouth, steady streams from empty wells; they had come so easily, void of meaning from repetitions and rehearsals.

Father Hayashi, his sponsor in faith, had dried remaining water out of his hair with a towel when he was dressed with the white robes of the pure. They had exchanged few words but kind ones: a father's joy, a son's appropriate reply. He had been given a candle, his own light lit from the wick of Christ's, and the bishop had anointed him with sacred chrism and prayer for confirmation, making him part of the congregation. He had shared the communion wafer as one of them, drunk the blood of Christ as one of them, sung the praise of god as one of them.

The Monday after, Satan's son rewarded his performance with more "cultural hands-on practice".

* * *

It always seemed to rain when he was in Rome. It was always that light kind of rain that never meant any serious business, though, so it didn't matter.

"You should have seen it in evening light, the red hues in the bricks come out so nicely when the sun sets on the Tiber…" To Samael it mattered, of course. Whenever art was concerned, he seemed to take it personally when things weren't to his liking. "Aah~ I love Italy for this… Nnh~ so rich, so _creamy_ – and the _flavour_ , goodness, it's like an orgasm in the mouth!"

The first thing Samael had done when the magical key had gotten them through the door was to buy Italian ice cream. The second thing he had done was to forever ruin Shiro's appetite for it by demonstrating exactly how long and… _nimble_ … demons' tongues were; and reminding him of certain dreams he wanted to strangle him for.

" _Don't rise to the bait._ " He repeated the familiar mantra to himself and stared straight ahead at the museum the asshole was forcing him to spend the day in. " _That's what he wants._ "

Evening sun or no evening sun, the building before them puffed its chest out proudly for the tourists and their flashing cameras. The cylinder of Castel Sant'Angelo wasn't that impressive if you compared it to the mountainous shape of True Cross Academy, but considering how long it had stood there the Academy couldn't even compete. The rain that coated Rome seeped into innumerable dents and cracks in the old stone; dents and cracks carved by a long history as fortress, treasury, prison, mausoleum, and presently museum. All in all, the foundations of Sant'Angelo had stood for almost two thousand years.

"These are all by Bernini's students: you can tell the difference by the curve of the lines", Samael prattled on in enthusiastic Italian and flicked the marble angels a connoisseur's gesture with his five scoop gelato cone. His other hand was occupied by the ice cream cone that constituted the tail of his bat familiar, now in the shape of an umbrella.

The massive Aelian Bridge they were crossing was flanked on both sides by the angel statues. Art wasn't Shiro's strong point – as Samael so kindly pointed out whenever opportunity came ambling – but even he was amazed at how one could make stone look as soft and light as fabric.

"Bernini was a tremendously talented chap, but busy as geniuses are. He only made two out of these ten himself, but those have been replaced with replicas and now stand in a small basilica east of here – a shame, really, when they should by right be on display here: at the castle of angels!"

The next dramatic flourish the old goat made was to introduce the building that came steadily closer as they walked, even though Shiro knew it perfectly well from photographs. Rather than point this out, he meandered around some other tourists and pretended he didn't know the weirdo that lectured happily – and loudly – about the influence of the Borgia family in 16th century Italy.

Shiro squinted through the rain, up at the bronze statue of Archangel Michael that gazed back at him from the top of the building. Castle of angels? They could name it whatever the hell they liked, it wouldn't change what it actually was. Castel Sant'Angelo had been a prison. It had been host to torture and executions; the banisters of the bridge they walked had been decorated with heads instead of angels. Demons loved places like this. Places full of suffering and darkness. They hovered about the bridge in the shape of ghosts, fuelled with resent and unfulfilled wishes. He could see them prowling the glistening pavement, pearly white in the rain, with rags hanging limply from abused limbs. Some of them staggered around in search of their heads; others pleaded unheard for a crust of bread to bring home to families that died centuries ago.

Shiro's heart clenched at their pain. His _unguarded_ heart clenched. But none of them approached him, none of them leapt at the chance.

" _Poison and potion_ ", he huffed quietly to himself.

Shiro walked slower. His glasses were studded with droplets and didn't do much good for seeing, but wiping them was a temporary and unnecessary measure. He kept his hands in his pockets and toyed absentmindedly with the lighter while he waited. Had to let Samael catch up.

An undiluted feeling of bitterness seeped into him, much like the rain had begun seeping into his worn shoes. The murky flavour filled him, tangy and unpleasant but nonetheless something other than the emptiness of not feeling.

Shiro stopped, then closed his eyes and turned his face up at the light rain. Droplets tickled his temples, trailing gently down his throat to be caught by the patchwork scarf he wore. Bitterness was better than nothing. Anything was better than nothing. If only he didn't have to put up with Samael for it.

Shiro had grown accustomed to the thought that there was no way of detaching himself around Samael. Shutting his heart with that particular demon nearby was impossible, probably because he had willingly let him into it once – young and blue-eyed as he had been. But he was both potion and poison; that, at least, had been true. His presence made Shiro vulnerable, but it simultaneously made other demons keep their distance.

" _Did he know I was compatible from the start?_ " The question had been gnawing his mind for weeks. " _He said there's been others like me. If he knows that he might know how to spot humans like me. He could've planned to contract me right from the start._ " Through the crowd of murmurs and shuffling feet his  
ears singled out the clicking of Samael's boots. A smile, wry and crisp, tugged his lips at the discovery that he didn't know just how the bastard walked but how he sounded when he walked. " _If I didn't know better I'd think those heels were on a woman._ "

"That scarf really is hideous, you know", came the familiar voice that got an even more prominent lilt when it spoke Italian. "It looks more fit for swiping floors than for being worn as a garment."

Shiro opened his eyes and turned his gaze back to the grey bridge, adjusting the dangling scarf end that had slipped from his shoulder as he did.

"I like it." Both because Kasumi had made it and because it stung Samael's eyes like nettle leaves. "Why are there so many ghosts here after so a long time?"

"Such a long time." The correction came automatically, followed by another lick on the ice cream before the actual reply: "There are two main reasons for that. The limited number of exorcists makes the Order focus on demons that disturb peace and order for humans: harmless ones like these are simply no high priority", he said and stepped aside to avoid the touch of what had once been a young woman.

Beheading is a quick end, and the most merciful kind as far as death penalty went in the old Papal States. It was still horrible. The ghost cradled her head in her arms, eyes half closed and orbs rolled back, blood dribbling from the corners of the slack mouth.

Good thing so few could see demons.

"The other reason…" Samael could pull off a smile like a cat gazing into an open bird cage, and it was an awful sight. "Well~ it's less palatable, but perfectly in line with human nature; authorities don't want these ghosts exorcised. Any guess why~?"

Shiro caught the sideways look and the challenge that came with it. Samael was in the mood for playing games. He couldn't say he shared the enthusiasm, but as with most games there was the unspoken promise of a reward if he played well enough: more knowledge.

"There must be something to gain from leaving them as they are", he contemplated reluctantly. Something perfectly in line with human nature? "I suppose they could act as guardians, but if these are thought of as to be… thought of, as… harmless", he grimaced at his clumsy Italian, "they won't make good guardians. I'll think about it."

It held so many echoes of his childhood that Shiro felt physically nauseous. Shallow words that tiptoed over cracks mended with glue and tape. Painted masks of pretence. Maybe he was turning into his dad after all.

They reached the entrance before long, ushered forward by a flock of tourists eager for the shelter inside. The rain had been picking up, as had a chilly wind from the Tiber. They all huddled into the opening in the thick wall, while the overhanging structure dripped a small moat onto the pavement below it. There was the rustling of rain clothes and coins as people lined up and began counting lire for the entry tariff. The only one not counting was Samael. The huge ice cream cone was nowhere to be seen; instead he whistled anime openings and tapped the toe of his boot in synch, leisurely waiting in line while twirling a very large bank note between his fingers. He had the same odd relationship with the Italian lira as he had with the Japanese yen, and only stuffed his wallet with notes of the 50 000 lire variety.

Castel Sant'Angelo had borrowed an exhibition from another museum, as it normally didn't have anything on display that hadn't been placed in the castle by some Pope several hundred years ago. The poster on the wall opposite the cashier's desk advertised that it would be on display throughout summer, and stated in red which dates the museum would be closed. The poster next to it reminded visitors that the ghost walk, which was a guided, historical tour of the castle's dungeons, could be taken every Wednesday, Thursday and Friday except holidays. Shiro huffed. The cartoonish two-eyes-on-a-bed-sheet ghosts someone had decided to print on the poster weren't exactly good representations of the reality that was stuck out there on the Aelian Bridge.

And maybe it was the clash between that poster and reality that made him connect the puzzle pieces.

"Hey…" He switched back to Japanese without even thinking. All he could think of was the cartoon ghosts with their cartoon chains and cartoon lanterns. And the smouldering anger pressing against his ribcage. "You mean to say they're tourist magnets?" Each word came slow. Cold. Knowing but not wanting to believe.

"Bingo!" Samael announced with a grin and a wink that earned more than a few odd looks from the other tourists. "Took you longer than I had expected, but no one can blame you with the gorgeous works of Bernini's students to delight eyes and distract thoughts."

"Oh cut the crap for once!" Rise to the bait? He would fucking _lunge_ at the goddamn bait! "Why's the Vatican allowing this? They're not _circus animals_ , fuck's sake they're _people_! And we keep them suffering 'cause it's more _profitable_ that way?"

"Of course." Shiro's enmity sizzled at the light and chipper tone. Samael didn't care; handed the bank note over to the cashier with a charming smile and not a worry in the world. He then returned his eyes to Shiro and the Japanese they were speaking. "You need to reason more like an exorcist, Shiro: the Vatican allows this because they _aren't_ people. Just demons animating the vapours from dead human bodies."

"That's still _part_ of a human", he argued and ignored the voice of reason that dryly informed him he was doing exactly what Samael wanted. "That's human regret walking around on that bridge."

"Human leftovers, you mean. I doubt they want their regrets back once they're free of it." Samael's long fingers drummed absentmindedly on the counter while the cashier desperately tried to scrape together enough change. "Once you come to Rome you'll find that, in practice, ghosts are treated slightly differently from demons in general. They're pacifists by comparison, only taking that which doesn't hurt anyone. That which no one else wants." His eyes swept slowly over the bridge out in the rain behind them; slowly as if leafing through the pages of history, reading every event that had taken place on its stone arch. "Even pain and unresolved emotions."

"You _can have pain and unresolved emotions and walk around on that bridge; I'd pay good money to see that._ "

Great, fifteen minutes into their day-trip and Samael had already gotten him to lose his cool. Shiro cursed himself quietly as they got their tickets and their change and filed out into the castle's courtyard to make room. Beige-grey walls enclosed them with little care for symmetry, and only got greyer as the rain continued to pour out of the sky. Most tourists hurried past the open courtyard, slipping by under the gaze of an angel statue with bronze wings covered in patina. That was what Castel Sant'Angelo was named for, after all. Some Pope at some point claimed he'd seen Archangel Michael descend on top of it.

"You should do your best to get rid of yours." Samael's tone was a casual one as he picked up where he left off. The ice cream had magically reappeared in his hand as soon as they were out of sight from the cashier's desk, and his umbrella reopened readily at a flick of his wrist.

"Beg your fucking pardon?" Shiro's hands curled into fists inside his trouser pockets, but outwardly he let nothing show save a snide, venomous tone.

"Your bottled-up emotions: you really should do something about them", he replied with a lazy lick on the ice cream. "As it is you're a five-course dinner waiting to be eaten by any demon passing by."

Shiro's jaws were moving – twitching, to be precise – but not a word came out. The nerve of that asshole. The fucking _nerve_. And his royal bitchiness thought none of it, just stood there licking his ice cream and glancing up at Archangel Michael as if teasing the statue with it. Slap the ice cream away and smash his face in; that would take care of his bottled-up emotions. Pity the old goat would just skip out of the way and turn it into a game of tag.

They only locked eyes for a few brief instants, but that was more than enough for Shiro's thoughts to rush through a quick, all too familiar loop. He wanted to hurt Samael. He was too weak to do it. He needed ways to hurt him mentally. He needed to know his sore spots.

" _I know about Faust._ " True, Johann Faust had held a special position in Samael's life. What kind of position, he didn't know exactly. " _Knowledge is useless when incomplete._ " And until it was… he could only grit his teeth and bide his time. "It's not like I can", he returned at last, never turning his gaze away from Samael.

"Of course you can", he smiled, like a parent encouraging a child that hesitates to go down the playground slide. "All humans can: just make your peace with them and let go."

…Shiro couldn't tell if Samael had stopped his time or if he had been so furious that he had literally blacked out and not noticed that the demon had walked past him towards the staircase in. He heard the rhythmic clicking of the heeled boots moving away behind him, and the muted hissing of the rain against the courtyard pavement. A puff of mist left his mouth. Then another. And another.

Make peace with his emotions and let go? Was that a tasteless joke or was he actually serious…?

" _You think I will forgive you? After all you've done?_ "

* * *

Shiro wasn't _interested_ in marble floors and gaudy tapestries and mouldy old libraries. He wasn't _interested_ in the Popes' fancy bed and he sure wasn't interested in having Samael for a tour guide. But he kept prattling. Good _god_ he kept prattling, there just was no end to it; every goddamn _coffee stain_ in the papal apartments got its own special mention – wasn't relevant for five shits to history, but he had known the latest twelve Popes _personally_ and god forbid he'd miss a chance to show off with knowledge that he was in _exclusive_ possession of.

Shiro didn't wake from his self-induced partial coma until they climbed down the stairs to the lower levels of the castle. The hallways changed from high, vaulted ones made for living in to lower, simpler ones that were part of the castle's function as military fortress. The walls were bare brick and mortar with no effort made to clothe them in smooth slates of marble, and even the faintest whisper from the tourist mass echoed sternly back at them. The air was damper, chillier, and the stains on the walls were more likely to be from gunpowder and dust than coffee. The stocky bombards in the corner of the guard room were the first item Shiro actually read the plaque on: three tonnes in weight, capable of hurling 260 kg projectiles at a range of 100-200 meters. How did you even load a monster canon like that?

There were displays of old armour, old swords, a timeline of firearms used by the guards from the harquebus to the musket to the rifle, and for the first time that day Shiro was actually enjoying himself. The tourist batch moved on rather quickly while he took his time to ponder the advantages and disadvantages of different designs.

There was a series of lit exhibition cabinets in the centre of the old guard room, showcasing part of the exhibition that the museum had temporarily borrowed. There were detailed sketches on thin paper, accompanied by wooden miniature replicas made from the drafts. One was a huge crossbow meant to sit on the castle's battlements and fire bolts more like spears or lances at the enemy. In the cabinet next to it was a draft of a goddamn _tank_ , or at least a predecessor to it, and next to _that_ was a sketch of the first machine gun. A _four hundred and fifty years old_ machine gun. Other sketches showed submarines and helicopters, even a fully operational scuba diving suit.

What really surprised Shiro was the name on the plaques: Leonardo da Vinci. He'd thought the guy only did paintings, but he seemed to have dabbled in just about everything. The plaques went on to describe that all the designs were considered to be for fully operational machines, but that da Vinci had deliberately made small errors in each of them to ensure that they couldn't be stolen and put to use without his consent.

This held true for all except a peculiar sketch that had been found among his others; peculiar because it detailed a close-range weapon, the only one da Vinci had ever designed, and because it contained such an obvious design flaw that nobody would consider building it. It was to be worn like a bracelet, containing a retractable blade operating with a spring mechanism; the application was thought to be either self-defence or assassination. This was a strange design, the plaque noted, since da Vinci's contractors killed either by warfare or by poison and had little interest in killing methods that risked the killer getting caught. Furthermore, the bearer would need to have his ring finger cut off to be able to operate the device, and the concealed blade was never built simply because there were less bothersome ways of killing unwanted individuals.

"Fantastic, aren't they?" Samael murmured next to him. The light from the glass cabinets hit his face from below, cutting his sharp features sharper with shadows. "Humanity is amazing in how much effort she spends on ways to destroy herself. Bernini was a genius, but Leo… Leo was a miracle." The green eyes were far away, trailing a voice that was reminiscing a different time, a different world. "He had a keen eye both for details and for how they fit together in the whole, and he understood things… he truly _understood_ things. We could talk all day, all night, there was no end to his creativity and his curiosity for more – biology, geology, physics, art, _mechanics!_ Never before and never since has there been a human so brilliant, wise, witty, talented; oh, and so _handsome_ ~" Samael was acting in that silly, giddy manner that made Shiro cringe, but the demon neither noticed nor cared: too lost in happy daydreams of dead men. "Leo had everything~"

Something coarse and rusty with sharp edges twisted deep inside Shiro's chest. 'Leo had everything.' Leo had everything, Leo was amazing and worthy of his attention, Faust was fascinating and precious – and Shiro was a pawn to be played and discarded. He was no genius, no miracle, no scholar, just… expendable.

* * *

They caught up with the majority of the tourists on the middle floors of the castle. That's where the other part of the borrowed exhibition was held: an  
assortment of statues and paintings that left you wondering if maybe the museum had borrowed parts of _several_ exhibitions, since there didn't seem to be any theme to it. There was some guy named Bosch whose visions of paradise, earth and hell made you wonder if he was in the habit of smoking things other than tobacco, and if maybe he had an aversion to music since the primary method of torture in hell seemed related to music instruments. You also kind of wondered about the guy's concept of 'earthly delights' since these apparently included huddling inside giant shrimp husks and having some dude stick flowers into your butt.

Shiro was too occupied with wonder over the bizarre paintings to notice the two girls until he almost stumbled over them. They sat propped up against the museum wall with their knees drawn up to form makeshift supports for their sketch pads. The brunette glanced up at him but looked down on her coal sketch again as soon as she had established that he wasn't going to step on them. The blonde with glasses was completely absorbed in her work and didn't react – not that Shiro would have noticed if she did, as his attention was on the generous cleavage shown by her partially unbuttoned blouse. He could have spent the rest of the day admiring that piece of art if it wasn't for the chain with the small golden crucifix dipping down in that lovely valley. One tiny piece of metal that effectively took any joy from the view and converted it to torture.

" _Hello celibacy: I'd say 'pleasure to meet you' except you don't do pleasure. Or anything at all._ "

He resumed his tour around the exhibition room, or at least moving about and standing in front of the various pieces while he thought about how much he would miss girls and boobs. And Kasumi…

He did his best to lead thoughts onto a different track. He might not be much into art, but he could see how this was a good place for practising drawing skill. There were Greek sculptures and parts of Greek sculptures and sculptures that made you wonder if the Greek had been smoking the same things Bosch had. It was one of those that Shiro was looking at when Samael returned from his own tour of the room, filled with chirping joy over human creativity.

"Isn't it just amazing? This drive to create for creation's sake! I believe that to be a fundamental part of human nature: as the body needs sleep and nourishment, so the human soul has a need to express itself through art."

"This isn't art: it's a demon shagging a goat", Shiro observed flatly regarding the sculpture in front of them.

"If that is what you wish to see it as."

"No, I'm pretty damn sure that's what it is."

It was a satyr, and it was a goat, and whether or not it was consensual it was something Shiro wouldn't label 'an expression of the human soul'.

"But is that _all_ it is?" Samael probed with a cryptic smile. "Looks deceive. The language of art must be read in its mother tongue to be properly understood: to you it's only erotica, but to the Romans it was a wish for cattle to be fertile, and by extension a wish for their own survival and prosperity – mixed with a healthy dose of ancient Roman humour."

Ancient Romans thought it was fun to have demons knock their cattle up with monster spawn? Sure, in a culture where gladiators fighting each other to the death was considered public entertainment maybe it was great fun to have shit like Minotaurus of Crete pop out its ugly head from some sheep's butt, who knew… Shiro wasn't that bothered by the sculpture itself but thought more of the massive problems they would have had with demon infestation if the satyrs got too frisky. There was a plaque on the pedestal, so he read it if only for practising his Italian:  
 __  
Marble sculpture discovered in Naples in 1752. The mythological Pan, half man and half goat,  
originates from Arcadia where he was primarily the god of the woods and wilderness.  
He was also a patron of shepherds and flocks, music and sexuality, which are thought to be  
functions he derived from his father Hermes (Roman: Mercury).  
  
Hermes.

Shiro's eyes lingered on the name for a moment of blank-minded disbelief: then they shut, and his eyelids scrunched together tightly to keep the images away.

"I thought you said you didn't have kids?" he said flatly, switching to Japanese so as to avoid the wrong ears overhearing.

"Hm? I don't. I _had_ children – quite a few, in fact." Samael had been about to more closely admire Bosch's madness but returned to Shiro's side for another look at the sculpture. There wasn't a single thing in his face, motions or voice to betray that his children were all… "Those who weren't taken by time met their ends in other ways. Pan had an unfortunate run-in with exorcists of the old Greek tradition, not long before this sculpture was made", he said, as if just recalling an anecdotal coincidence. "That's what happens, eventually, when you lure humans away in the woods."

Shiro was very busy trying not to think of why Samael's son was half goat. He was also very busy forgetting that another of Samael's aliases was Loke, and all the unpleasant associations that came with that. Not that he felt like saying 'I'm sorry for your loss'.

"' _I'm sorry you had a father who didn't give a shit' would feel more appropriate_ ", he thought to the ugly little goat molester.

"Do keep your fascination with bestiality from public eyes when you enrol at the seminar, Alexander; the Romans of today have a quite different view on sex than the ancients", he teased, leaning down to murmur in Shiro's ear and making him acutely aware that he had spent a suspiciously long time ogling Pan's sex-athletics. "Alexander… Hmmh, no, I don't think I will be using your new name", Samael continued his musings once he had straightened up again. "'Shiro' is short and handy – but the choice was a pleasant surprise."

There was room for a comment there, at the end of that sentence. An explanation for why he had picked Samael's suggestion, and maybe even an acknowledgement that it had been the right choice all along. Samael never missed an opportunity to be right about something.

Shiro trotted after his "guide" down the stairs, keeping to the right side to allow easy passage for tourists on their way up. That hair curl was begging to be pulled, bobbing up and down like that.

"We both know Jacob didn't fit me", he said noncommittally, hearing his own voice echo accented Italian from the whitewashed arches. "It was just to bait you."

"M-mm and you did a magnificent job of it, too~"

Whenever Samael praised him, Shiro got a deep, itchy feeling that something was wrong. If something was right according to Samael then it must per definition be wrong. Then again, that voice played tricks on your ears and praise could just as well be scorn in disguise.

"Are you approving or are you just trying to cover up the damage and pretend it wasn't a direct hit?" Shiro had no motivation to play games or cross words with Samael. That belonged in a past life, and all he had patience for now were blunt, straightforward questions and equally blunt, straightforward answers that he wasn't likely to get.

"You shouldn't need to ask, Shiro~ Shrewd players offer more challenging games", he smiled, and when they reached the ground floor he spun around elegantly on the tip of his toes to face him. "And I do love a good game of wits", he finished with a mischievous wink.

The truth and nothing but the truth: but not the whole truth, no. Samael had been knocked off balance and lost that round, but hell would freeze over before he admitted that. The most important words were always the ones he avoided to speak.

However, calling him out on that would add fuel to the fire, and Shiro had promised himself not to do that no matter how tempting it was. No matter how much his imprinted instincts made him itch to prod a sore spot.

" _Did you know from the start that I was a possible host for Satan?_ " It was on his tongue to ask it, but he hesitated; and the moment was gone. Samael had made a flourishing turn and exited into the courtyard. " _I'm not even sure I wanna know the answer…_ "

The last part of the exhibition was the city itself. The best view was had from the top of the castle, but since that was where all tourists now flocked Samael instead led them up on the walls. They were truly massive, wide enough to drive a horse carriage on and still have room for one mounted escort on either side. The rain had passed, and the clouds it had forgotten in the sky were dispersed into a gilt-edged panorama that didn't look that unlike some of the Renaissance paintings in the Papal apartments. Past the battlements you could see the green stretch of the Tiber, St. Peter's basilica, the monument of Vittorio Emanuele II the old king of Italy…

"Annnd~ _pop quiz!_ "

With a poof of pink smoke Samael produced a sheet of paper out of thin air and fished out a ballpoint pen from inside his suit. He looked tremendously pleased with himself as he held the articles out to Shiro.

"You could've said there was gonna be a test!" _That_ would've motivated him to pay attention on the tour.

"And ruin the surprise?" he said with an unmatched air of uncomprehending innocence.

"You're not dumb so quit acting like it. Give me the damn paper", Shiro snarled and snatched pen and paper out of his hands.

He sat down unceremoniously on the still damp bricks of the battlement and smoothed the sheet out over his thigh. The test was all in Italian, which wasn't surprising. It was also all about the various Popes and their political relations with the Holy Roman Emperor. And one question about which of Leonardo da Vinci's inventions were employed in Rome. Shiro took a deep breath, counted to five while he held it, and let it out.

"Why the fuck do I need to know when and why the fifth Sack of Rome happened?"

Shiro thought it was a well-founded question to ask, since local history had very little to do with measuring up antitoxins or putting a bullet between a demon's eyes. Samael, on the other hand, leant forward until he was right in his face and asked, the way you do with mulish little children:

"Do you know why the atomic bombs were dropped on Japan?"

"Of course I do", he snapped.

"And you know why Japan was occupied by American troops afterwards?"

"Yes", he confirmed with rapidly diminishing patience for everything that didn't have to do with the museum tour and the stupid test.

"Then you know why Japan today is a democracy with one of the world's fastest growing economies, and not the stagnant backwater empire it was before. If you don't know the past you don't understand the present", he concluded and straightened up out of his face. Tipping his head to the side, he finished: "But the more interesting question is: are these two different nations of Japan, or are they the same Japan?"

"It's…" He wanted to say it was the same, of course it was the same; but when Samael posed questions the first reply that came to mind was usually the wrong one.

The Japanese people and the Japanese language were the same: the constitution and the borders of the country itself were different. The economy was different. Ideals were different. Clothing was different. Japan a few decades ago certainly wasn't the same as the Japan of today, but…

"Perhaps a more tangible example would be better~", Samael interrupted cheerfully. He snapped his fingers, and two photographs appeared in frames full of heart shaped stickers. One picture Shiro recognised as the owner of the exorcist supply shop; the other was a black-and-white photo of a little girl dressed up in kimono, with her fair hair drawn up in a bun. He couldn't decide which one was more disturbing to find in Samael's possession.

"Moriyama Mayu-chan is forty-three years old", he informed, pointing at the frame with the familiar gentle face. "If you compare her now with her as a five-year-old, would you claim they're two different persons? Or are they the same one?"

Shiro's brow furrowed even more. They were obviously the same person; and yet, the adult Moriyama's body wasn't that of a five-year-old, and her mind wasn't that of a five-year-old… and he had never thought of it like this before…

"I… don't know", he admitted after a long silence. "Some things are the same, obviously. Other things have changed. Moriyama-san is different now from when she was a kid, but she still has the memories of being that kid so they are the same. Japan is different now from what it used to be, but it's not _entirely_ different."

Samael gave no indication if that was a good or a bad answer, only let the photographs disappear back to wherever he kept them.

"A tough nut to crack, hm~? It's quite entertaining to see humans struggling with the mechanics of time. Reminds me of when Amaimon was little and I gave him a piece of string with only one end", he smirked, glancing at the sky and tapping a gloved finger to his chin as he thought back on it. "The little runt wouldn't stop pestering me for entertainment, but that kept him busy. For a while. I never quite knew if he swallowed it because he liked it or because it frustrated him…"

"This little runt won't stop pestering you either unless you quit sidetracking and give him the answer he's waiting for."

"Certainly", he smiled, full of untrustworthy willingness to comply. "Pass the pop quiz and I'll tell you."

Shiro almost cursed out loud. So, he'd chased the bait and walked into the trap. Play the game and be rewarded with knowledge.

"How high percentage do I need to pass?"

"Sixty-five."

"That's unfair, it's an unprepared test."

"Seventy~?"

Shiro bit his tongue to keep himself from arguing further. It was always like this. Samael made the rules, changed them when he felt like it, _told you_ if he felt like it; and under no circumstances did he care about your opinion of it.

Grumbling under his breath, Shiro began answering the first question on the quiz.

* * *

Shiro didn't score well, compared with his usual test results, but he scored well enough. He didn't know if he or Samael was more surprised by that.

"Well: rewards where rewards are due." Samael began walking along the battlements and used his umbrella as a walking cane. Shiro followed, dusting his butt off after sitting on the damp stone. "The answer to the state of Japan and of Mayu-chan is that they change over time, retaining some of their old qualities but losing and gaining others."

"You don't say?" Shiro retorted snidely. "C'mon, I got over seventy. You owe me a satisfying explanation."

"I gave you one: it's hardly my fault that you couldn't see the obvious answer."

"I _could_ , that's why I'm asking you to elaborate. Tell me the parts I didn't see. Tell me about time so I get how the change works. I wanna know how past and present are connected." He had spent his patience for one day. He had earned his explanation. He would get it without jumping through hoops for thatasshole's entertainment.

"Haah, that statement alone shows you didn't understand a thing…" he complained and sighed loudly at the impossible stupidity he had to put up with. Shiro was sorely tempted to put him out of his misery but grit his teeth and tried – _tried_ – to rein his sharp tongue in.

"What statement?" Excellent: proving Samael's point by being too stupid to even realise what he said wrong.

"Past and present aren't 'connected': they're one. They're intertwined, inseparable; a continuity." Samael's voice betrayed nearly the exact same impatience that Shiro's did; and in the first positive surprise that day, he suddenly remembered that playing dumb was one of the ways you could bait Samael into talking. Because for one who cherishes knowledge and wit there's nothing more galling than ignorance and stupidity.

"Theoretical time-shit", he huffed, keeping his impatient tone carefully pitched. "I wanted to know about Moriyama-san and Japan – you know, actual _stuff_ instead of just tossing around semantics." Good thing he'd paid attention to the old goat's tirades about his anaptyxis and semantics and god-knew-what when he was learning Italian.

"There would be no need for 'tossing around semantics' if humans understood time well enough to invent proper words for it." Perfect: now it had become a personal matter between humanity and his powers. "I suppose it can't be helped with the limited perception your senses grant you, but even the _simplest_ aspects of time are so blatantly obvious I can't understand how you fail to see them. The past is always present, for one. Nothing ever springs from nothing: the past is part of the present and will always be so."

"I still hear nothing but theoretical nonsense, but I guess that's all there is to it", he informed as rudely as he could and kicked a pebble over the bricks. There it was; the rush, the excitement. Playing games with Samael and coming out on top. He could feel the frustration leaving him as the levels of it rose in the demon. " _Taking care of my bottled-up emotions_ ", he smirked inwardly.

"So limited." Samael halted his clicking high heel stride abruptly and muttered under his breath. He marched over to the battlements and gestured sharply at the big, sunlit dome of St. Peter's basilica in the distance. "When they built the house of God, they scavenged stone from Rome's old Pagan temples." His hand swept back the other direction, at the red walls of Castel Sant'Angelo. "When they cast those bombards to protect the Vatican treasury, they used the bronze ceiling of the sacred Pantheon." He turned back to the view almost as if speaking to the city instead of Shiro. "All over Rome, churches rise towards the sky out of the broken backs of Pagan ruins; all over the world the old entwines into the new and merges, until there's no extracting them from one another with distinctions. Dividing lines are drawn only in your minds. There's no past, no present, no future: they are all at once, but you lack the senses to perceive it and therefore you lack the words to express it."

It came out fast and all in Italian, so Shiro had to cling to every word and use his practised Aria memory to put them down in his mind for analysis. The practical examples… He wasn't sure if they helped or not. That things changed shape and that the present was made up of things from the past wasn't that hard to grasp, but to fathom that past, present and future was 'all at once'… that didn't quite agree with his brain.

Things fell unusually quiet after the discharge. Shiro was occupied with thinking. Samael still stood at the battlements, watching all the busy cars and busier people scurrying in and out between houses below them, but Shiro wasn't sure he was really seeing them. Or seeing anything.

The breeze touched them gently with the tangy smell of seaweed on the Tiber banks. A smile jerked Samael's thin lips; not the small, secretive one of Knowing Something You Don't, but the one of manic glee that reached from one ear over to the other side of the Tiber.

"History has a beautiful sense of humour."

It was the kind of statement that gave Shiro a feeling he understood what it meant on _a_ level, but not on all levels. He got the humour in heathen relics ending up as part of churches, but he couldn't grasp why Samael had so suddenly gone from delightfully annoyed to disturbingly pleased. There must have been something he missed while he was busy catching the fast-paced Italian. Then again, sudden mood swings were his trademark…

* * *

They _could_ have used the key on any door, and the museum sure wasn't short on those; but the overgrown kid that claimed to be King of Time wouldn't go home unless he got another serving of ice cream. So back across the bridge they walked.

Shiro was looking forward to some peace and calm and detachment back in Japan. And some sleep. There was an eight hour time difference between Japan and Italy, and his body gruffly told him it was almost one o'clock at night, no matter Rome's opinion of what time it was.

When the same headless ghost appeared out of the throngs of tourists his exorcist reflexes had him reaching for a non-existent gun holster before he dryly reminded himself that this advertisement pillar wasn't on the target list. She glided past them, soundless and unnoticed just like before.

"Aren't you going to ask why she's here?"

"I know why she's here." Shiro just wanted this day to be over, but was rewarded with a dismissive clicking of the tongue.

"Observant as a ale keg. Didn't you notice her clothes?"

"Why would I?" She had been wearing a dress, that was all he'd noticed. Dresses were rather common things for women to wear in the past. " _It can't have been that common for women to be executed_ ", he corrected himself as he started to see what Samael was getting at. " _That dress looked pretty fancy, too._ "

"That fair lady was once named Beatrice Cenci", Samael picked up solemnly and assumed his best stage expression. "A tragic tale of desperation and injustice sealed her fate; born of beauty and of beast she-"

"Can I get the short, relevant version or should I get my earplugs out?"

"You can get an extra test on Renaissance art", he offered with venomous sweetness.

Shiro's reply to that was seven centimetres long, cylindrical and had a bad reputation for giving black lungs: and he had barely even lit it when Samael snatched it from his mouth and flipped it over the railing of the bridge. But, he did compensate:

"Beatrice was twenty two when she was executed. She had the misfortune of being born daughter of Francesco Cenci, a nobleman notorious both for violence and rape and occasionally incest. He was a regular customer at the Sant'Angelo prison grace of his family's complaints, but he never stayed for long. Blue blood has always been more valuable than legal justice."

At the ice cream stand the cashier begged him to use change instead of 50 000 lire notes, and since Samael wanted his ice cream and the cashier didn't have enough to give change for 50 000 he dug up the change he'd gotten for the museum tariff.

"The only way for the Cenci family to escape their tormentor was to murder him", he continued when the payment was taken care of. "For which the family in turn was put to death. Not the _whole_ family", he amended as he caught his own mistake. "A boy of twelve was spared. He was to be sold as a galley slave as far as I remember, but in the long run they chose to set him free instead. But! That's beside the point." There was a point? Other than polluting the air with his prattling? "The point is that Beatrice became a symbol for resistance against the arrogant nobles. She became more than just a girl, more than just a human: she became hope, pride, wrath – she became what the Romans needed to find the resolve within themselves to stand up and fight for justice!"

And around there, Shiro wished he could disappear off the face of the earth, or at least to somewhere where nobody would associate him with that one-man freak show.

"Ah, the things you humans can _do_ with the proper motivation; the things you can inspire _each other_ to do!" Samael declaimed and raised humanity towards the sky in his reached-up hand. "With just one act of resolution you light a wildfire from a matchstick, moved as one in unison by one who stepped outside the lines of unity and demanded they be redrawn!" He threw out his arms for dramatic effect and somehow picked up his readied ice cream cone in the process. "And that is why it's in the interest of the whole Roman population that the ghost of Beatrice continues to be glimpsed on the Aelian Bridge. She's a monument; not of Popes or kings, but a monument of the people", he concluded and took a bliss taste of his ice cream.

"She's not a monument. She's a twenty two-year-old girl who died." Some part of him – a large one if he were honest – just wanted to bitch back at Samael. But as the words passed his lips, Shiro found that they came from somewhere deeper than personal resent.

Beatrice Cenci had never intended to become a monument, he was pretty sure of that. She had never intended to become a symbol in the fight for justice. She had only wanted to be free of people who forced their will onto her.

"She undeniably is, but she has also undeniably gained a greater importance than other young women who die", Samael argued leisurely as they went in search of a door not too exposed to public eyes. "Very few live on beyond their mortal lives as she does, and her accomplishment is even more impressive when one considers that she was neither a scientist nor an artist – nor a man, for that matter. Neither was she martyred for religious reasons, but for the most noble reason of all: being human."

" _Please let there be a door somewhere…_ " This promised to draw out into a long and tedious argument with no conclusion – partly because there wasn't a definite answer, and partly because Samael just didn't… "You don't understand." No, he didn't: and it put a bliss, mean smile on Shiro's lips to be able to say that to his face in the most patronizing demeanour possible. "You're not human."

"Pulling the trump card on me to win the battle? How cheap."

"Taunting me into re-opening the battle you lost?" Shiro sneered back. "Nobody's cheaper than you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That statue can be easily found by googling pan and goat statue. Obviously, don't look if you feel your brain is better off without that image. It wasn't displayed as openly as this at museums back in the 70's, but then again it was never displayed in Castel Sant'Angelo either, so I suppose that historical inaccuracy couldn't have been avoided anyway. :P
> 
> Another historical inaccuracy is of course that Leonardo da Vinci never designed a bracelet with a hidden blade. He never cut off Ezio's ring finger either. =3
> 
>  **Beatrice Cenci** was real, though. The legend says her ghost appears on the Aelian Bridge where she was executed every year the night before she died. In my interpretation she's there the whole time, but only around the time of her death does her presence become so strong that she can be seen by humans not afflicted with mashou.
> 
> For those who have read Eddings' works, the flirt with Beldin's twig was entirely intended~
> 
>  **Philosophy of spolia** was something my teacher introduced me to back in college, and the fascination has been with me ever since. Spolia are parts of old structures that are recycled as building material for new ones. St. Peter's basilica does indeed hold pillars from temples dedicated to pre-Christian gods. The question then is: when does the transition take place, if there is one? Who are these pillars dedicated to? The Christian god? A Roman deity? Both? Or are they just slabs of stone that we ascribe properties to? Can we erase old properties by overwriting them with new ones? Can we, by claiming these pillars are now the property of the Christian god, sever their present state from their past and nullify their much longer history as properties of another god? Can we separate an object from its history? When does the bronze that constituted the ceiling in the portico of the Pantheon cease to be the portico ceiling and begin to be something else? If the shape of it has changed, but it's still the exact same particles of copper and tin, where do you draw the dividing line? Are there dividing lines, or is it we who imagine them because we feel a need to define things around us in set terms even though time continuously makes them change from one shape/function to another?
> 
>  **Ghosts in Ao no Exorcist** interest me quite a bit. "They are often characterized by the emotions the diseased had in life" according to the demon profiles in the volumes. Unresolved emotions and regrets, if you judge by the ghost kid and the transvestite ghost we've seen so far. I will reconnect to this later on with theories about Mephisto, but I thought it couldn't hurt to introduce the matter in advance and let it sink into your minds before getting there. =)


	78. Closet skeletons, matchbox ladybugs

Samael had an unmatched knack for frustrating everyone within a hundred meter radius. While that was nothing new, it was a rare sight that even the stoic Belial failed to put up with it. The butler's face remained blank and schooled as ever during cooking practice; in fact, Shiro had started to wonder if maybe his host was a poor match and he actually _couldn't_ work his facial muscles much. That kind of thing occurred, Samael had taught him. A body could be a good or bad fit just like a pair of shoes. Be that as it may, Belial's face hadn't shown a single trace of tension; but when he accepted the plate of biscotti from Shiro it had cracked between his fingers. So, that particular three course dinner became a two course dinner, and the ensuing Italian class made Shiro wish he had plates handy to shatter, too.

* * *

"Today we will be equipping you with some basic skills needed in order to survive in the Italian society. And to make it as authentic as we can…"

The tower room exploded in a burst of pink, and when the smoke dissipated it had been refurbished from Renaissance studiolo to what looked like an old-fashioned grocery store.

"…we'll role play!" Samael finished and threw his arms out wide at the market scene. "So, signore: what can I offer you today?" he inquired in Italian and instantly fell into role, slouching forward over the counter while rubbing his fingers together over a hideous fake moustache.

Shiro doubted that he'd need much "skill" to go to the market and point at the wares he wanted. He kept that reflection to himself, though. Just go along with it and get it over with. He glanced over the shelves that stood at attention along the walls, stacked with produce; he took a moment to note the domed ceiling that had been equipped with wooden bars where onion, garlic and salami hung in fragrant clusters; lastly, his gaze returned to the counter that had replaced the table between them, complete with an antique cash register and a bell to call the owner.

"I'll take two tomatoes. And a watermelon", he said, making no effort to conceal how tedious he thought this exercise was.

"Ah but that will only suffice for lunch! What of supper, hm? Look, I buy these aubergines from a good friend and they are the best you can find outside Sicily. The flesh is firm and juicy and the skin is glossy like olive oil."

"Yes yes, I'll take two aubergines too."

"A good choice! That will be three thousand lire."

"Sure: here you go", he replied and mimicked the motion of taking bank notes out of his pocket and putting them on the counter.

The "salesman's" sympathetic face fell, as did his whole posture, and gave way to crossed arms and a sceptical glare.

"Really, Shiro: you should pay no more than two and one hundred for that."

Oh. Haggling. Right. Shiro had had no need to haggle for a long while. He always bought the food ingredients he needed from the same market vendors and they knew by now what prices they preferred.

"Three thousand, is that your best price?"

"Best price the market has to offer, signore." And the Italian vegetable vendor was back at full throttle.

"Two and one hundred sound like a better price", he suggested and attempted to pry his lips into a smile. " _Maybe this is what Belial feels like if he tries to smile._ "

"Ah, you have a sense of humour – I like that. It reminds me of my old friend Enzo who now lives on Sicily. It's a beautiful place, isn't it?"

"How am I gonna haggle if you keep going off topic?"

"I'm not going off topic: tell me you hear Sicily is beautiful and that you'd like to go there some day; ask me if Enzo has any special tips on what to see and do there."

Shiro drew a deep breath and tried to suck in some extra patience along with it.

"I hear Sicily is beautiful. Maybe I'll go there some day. Does Enzo-"

"Ah-ah, keep eye contact!" Samael grasped his chin and tilted it higher. "Italy isn't Japan; people will expect you to look directly at them when you speak."

"Do we really have to do this?" Because Shiro didn't even have the energy to be angry at the demon's antics. All he wanted to do was to be left alone and figure out how he would handle his upcoming birthday.

"Of course we do!" Samael had no shortage of energy. And through some hellish irony of fate he seemed to have his highest mood peaks when Shiro had his lowest. "It's mercanteggiare: the unofficial national sport of the Mediterranean. Or would you rather like to try the other play aga-"

"We'll do the shopping roleplaying."

Originally, Samael had proposed an actual play to improve his verbal performance. Shiro knew about as much of plays as he knew of poetry and art; however, just like some works of art were so famous that even he knew of them, some plays were famous enough that he had an inkling of what they were about. _Romeo and Juliet_ was one such play, and he would sooner have the soles of his feet flayed than enact _Romeo and Juliet_ with Samael.

"Excellent! Now tell me your grandmother used to make delicious aubergine parmigiana and that you want it for two thousand lire."

"How does my grandmother's cooking have anything to do with haggling?" She hadn't even cooked aubergine parmigiana; she had served natto every time his family had come to visit, regardless of main course, and for a long while in his childhood Shiro had believed that elderly women were wrinkly because they all ate those awful beans and the grimaces contorted their faces.

"We really need to work on your aptitude at small talk…"

The lesson continued in that fashion until Shiro figured out that the Italian played a very different game from the Japanese. They haggled by doing everything _except_ haggling: talking about the weather, about relatives, about where to go and what to do. It made absolutely no sense, but it got Samael off his back. One had to be grateful for the small blessings – and they were indeed small. When class was over and the tower room was once again a Renaissance studiolo, Samael had another topic to discuss.

"You know, I've been thinking: it's your birthday soon, and a very special birthday at that." He leaned back in the wooden chair, one leg crossed over the other and hands comfortably clasped in his lap. Despite his attempts to give off a relaxed air, Shiro could tell he was excited. "Any plans for celebrations…?"

"No, there won't be any celebration", Shiro replied, still standing.

Actually, yes. Sen and Midori had said they might turn up and give him something – maybe Ryuuji, too, if he wasn't too afraid of arousing Shizuku's wrath. And Kasumi was coming over to see him. He had received a telegram that she was going to be a day late because of bad weather but in all honesty that was a relief. Shiro dreaded her visit more than anything, because he would have to tell her that he was going to Rome. That he was going to take the special classes for those who wished to be both exorcists and priests. That they couldn't be together anymore. She would wonder where the hell that came from all of a sudden, and she wouldn't let him off the hook without some good answers.

"Are you sure? _Someone_ seems to have a celebration in mind."

Samael's tone was casual – bored, almost – and matched his lazy scrutiny of the opened envelope between his fingers. All façade. He was curious as a little kid in front of a locked attic door. Why else would he have that card, crinkled and blemished with unidentifiable stains from the depths of the trashcan in Shiro's dorm room?

"A Fujimoto Satoshi…?" he read aloud from back of the envelope with some kind of mild, feigned surprise that True Cross Town had more than one person by the name Fujimoto.

"My uncle", Shiro provided guardedly, not sure yet what to expect or how to feel about it.

Samael lacked every human concept of personal space, be it literal or figurative; Shiro shouldn't be surprised that he was snooping in his private affairs. He shouldn't be surprised that incoming mail was run through some kind of check-up before it reached the students' compartments. Still, seeing the crumpled paper in those gloved fingers made him silently wish he'd burnt it instead.

"Your uncle." Samael's voice curled around the word, tasting it, before he turned his green eyes from the envelope to Shiro. "Whose invitation you threw out as trash?"

"I didn't know you dug around in people's garbage", he replied, calm and toxic.

"Don't be silly; I had a familiar fetch it. You call your only remaining relatives' invitation to a family reunion garbage? That's uncivilized even for you."

Family. Like the sprint that held together the feathers of a fan, family was the centrepiece in the life of every Japanese. Family was the altar on which you heaped the achievements of your existence: money, reputation, gratitude, honour. Shiro had gone through much of his life without that. It had marked him, of course it had – in both good and less good ways. It was a closed chapter, though. It set the tone of the story, but that chapter was closed and the story moved on. He had never had any intention of going back and reopening it.

Shiro met Samael's green eyes in silence, letting the words ripen on his tongue to make sure they carried the message when he spoke them.

"You've lived in Japan longer than I have. You know what people do with kids they don't want."

Yes, Samael caught what he implied. Caught it, spun it around, tied a little bow of it, and returned it with a light smile as he pointed out the obvious:

"They don't send them birthday cards."

"You know what I mean." Yes: he just had a foul habit of not caring about it.

Shiro felt the sudden need for a cigarette, if only to have something to occupy his hands with and a reason to look away for a moment. He couldn't light it anyway; Samael had confiscated the lighter, but the lighter had also run out of gas that same morning.

"It's been, what? Nine years?" He took his time deciding which of all the identical cigarettes in the packet he wouldn't light. "Nine years since dad died, and now all of a sudden they invite me to family dinner?"

"A mystery indeed. It has nothing to do with you turning twenty, I'm sure: who would think to celebrate such an insignificant parenthesis in life as passing from childhood to adulthood?"

"Knock it off. What does it matter to you if I celebrate my birthday or not?"

"Always expecting plans and traps, hm~?" Samael seemed to find it very funny that burnt children shunned fire. He fanned himself lazily with the birthday card envelope, putting on a face that suggested Shiro was being comically paranoid about it all. A scent of perfume wafted into his face from the motion, and he was pretty damn sure it had been added _after_ the envelope had left his trashcan. "Relax, little lion: those creases between your eyebrows age you beyond your years. It's nothing much to me if you celebrate or not, but quite a lot to you. You go from boy to man the tenth of May, and that happens only once in life. If you don't take the opportunity to celebrate, you will spend the rest of your life wondering-"

"I can celebrate that on my own."

"Just saying", he smiled effortlessly. "Fail to seize opportunity as it flies by, and you will always wonder what you missed." He stopped using the envelope as a fan, turned it over and looked at it contemplatively, as if it had just whispered something in his ear. "It might be your last chance to have a family."

"I've done well without a family." And Samael was making an unmotivated effort to get him to seek his remaining family out. Always expecting plans and traps, yes. It was a justified suspicion – and it made it easier to ignore the stab those words left in him. _It might be your last chance to have a family._

"Let me put it like this, then." Samael's voice lost some of its shallow cheerfulness as he eyed Shiro with that scalpel gaze of his, as if to locate that stab wound and drive his point home deeper into it. "How long are you going to run from your past?"

"In that case no, I'm not letting you put it like anything", he retorted. "This is a business arrangement and my past isn't part of that business."

His guardedness amused the little bastard. Well, so be it. Shiro wouldn't give him a single scrap more of his private life to use against him.

"The past is always part of the present~ Toss them in the trash and pretend they don't exist – is that how you intend to handle problems in the future, too…?" Samael clicked his tongue against his teeth, disapproving of how his apprentice failed to pick up on his lessons. "Not a very reliable business partner, then."

And that was where Shiro wouldn't put up with it anymore. He snatched the envelope out of the demon's hand and snarled through his teeth:

"You're in no position to talk about reliable business partners."

Shiro marched out the door before the bastard could say anything more.

His feet fell heavily on the steps of the spiral staircase, at first; then he was reminded by more clearly thinking parts of his brain that the tower was part of the library and that he should be quiet. It was frustrating, how those brain centres only seemed to work when Samael wasn't nearby. Shiro's steps slowed, and the rattling in the wrought iron armature diminished.

" _He only says those things to piss me off. There's no other point to it, just pissing on me to get a reaction._ " But was that really all? Was that truly, really all there was to it…?

The further away Shiro got from Samael the more did his mind clear from the hazy buzz of anger; and when it did, some things came to light that he would rather have left in the fog.

" _I flare up 'cause he's right._ "

Lies hurt. Betrayal hurts. Truth hurts more than anything. Reason is cruel that way. Tears the veil from the mirror so that all your flaws – all your painful truths – can crack you with their glares.

Rows of heavy bookshelves faded to grey as Shiro shut himself to the world once more. An iron shield to keep demons out, a shell to hide within. He needed more than that. To be iron all the way through, with no weaknesses to expose if the shell cracked; that was what he needed. To obtain that, he needed to purge the ore so that only iron was left, weed out the weaknesses that made him vulnerable. Reason is useful, in all its cruelty – tears the veil from the mirror so that flaws can be identified and eliminated.

" _I've had nine years to seek them out. Nine years telling myself the fault is theirs so I wouldn't have to. Running from it all just like dad._ "

The envelope creaked miserably in his fist.

It's always tempting to find a scapegoat for your conscience – place the blame on someone else and let them deal with it. It's never pleasant when the mirror points out that some of the dirt is on you as well.

* * *

Shiro didn't go to Aria class after Italian. His brain was full of words already, inbred words that played tag in familiar circles; he should stop running and meet his past face to face, but why did Samael show an interest in that? Another hidden motive, another trap waiting for him to spring it? Accept the invitation: decline it? Right choice, wrong choice – why not just pick a flower and pull the petals off one by one? Let Hazard decide, since Chance seemed to be on Samael's payroll.

Shiro trod the wordscapes on the stumps of haunted thoughts, feet like compass needles pointing to the night market only to remember that nocturnal distractions slept in cardboard nests at this time of day. His thoughts churned on. His feet followed like mules on tether.

Distractions. That seemed to be what his life had boiled down to. Not actually living, but distracting himself from everyday life. His grades bore testament to that. He was now an excellent Aria and an even better Dragoon, and the kind of friend that never had time when Sen and Midori – and occasionally Ryuuji – asked him out.

There were many nooks for haunted thoughts to hide in on the campus; hollow depressions for the heavy ones that wished for peace, soaring rooftops for the ones that sought escape by any means. His had taken a liking to the impressive – dangerous – hanging gardens: a no man's land he would never have found if he hadn't tended to the school grounds as janitor last summer. The gardens were a strip of artificial earth, an appendage transplant two meters wide that clung to the outer wall of one of the suspended walkways. You could see far from there, no glass panes or fences to hold gazes back. A decorative wall of bricks, knee-high at best,was all there was to keep the one-way drop out. A red line of brick. The last line to cross.

Suicide was never an option; it just invited itself into his head to remind him of the possibility whenever he was up there. If things ever got too tangled, if there ever came a time when there was no way out, there was the standing offer to cross that red line of brick and end it all.

Maybe Chance had taken offence at his silent accusations of bribery. He had never seen anyone else in the hanging gardens, at least.

"Oh. Hi. I didn't think anybody came here."

A beige jacket cushioned her where she sat, back against the walkway wall. Moriyama Sayuri had occupied the spot Shiro had claimed as his, just beside the lavender shrubs. They would buzz with bumblebees in August, but in May they had only just grown out their wobbly flowerless stems to sample the sunlight. Sayuri looked like a flower bud, too: legs drawn up tight towards her chest almost as if they sought to crawl in under her for shelter.

"Same here", Shiro replied, coming to a stop. He had been so sure he would be alone here that he hadn't spent a thought on what he would do if he weren't. "This place is usually empty."

"Yeah." Sayuri seemed to feel just as awkward. She made a move to take her jacket and leave, then remembered she held a cigarette in her hand and put it between her lips to pick up the jacket, only to remember she hadn't answered properly and remove the smoke again. "I just needed some lone time. You know."

To that, Shiro just gave a nod and a grunt. He knew. But when he turned to leave and find a spot for his own lone time, Sayuri spoke up again. If it was to herself or to him he couldn't tell.

"I don't hate her – not really. She's my mom. It's just…" Her free hand remained clenched around the hem of the jacket, but she made no move to rise. Her eyes were far away, fleeting on the shimmering skyline of True Cross Town. She looked like someone whose thoughts seek out the loneliest place they can find. "She's like the trees in her garden: rooted to the spot. I don't want that kind of life. I know she expects me to take over the shop one day, but…" Sayuri drew a breath on her cigarette and hissed the smoke out between her teeth. "I couldn't do it even if I wanted to. I don't care about plants the way she does and I don't have her green fingers. If she could just realise that…"

Shiro waited a while, but Sayuri remained silent. He didn't know what to do with that kind of silence. He should probably say something, but all that came to mind were standardised lines like "I hope it gets better" or "If you just talk maybe you can sort it out" and other empty phrases that didn't solve anything. They already had been talking, obviously; many times. There was nothing he could _do_ about the matter.

"I'd help you if I could, but I'm really not the right guy to give advice on family relations", he said at long last.

"Oh. Right. Sorry, I wasn't thinking, sitting here talking about family trouble when you… Shit, I'm sorry."

"Don't be, it's alright." He hoped his words didn't sound as flat and empty as they were.

"Thanks." If they did sound empty, Sayuri didn't show she'd noticed. Her eyes remained on the horizon and the jet engine streaks that planes had left in the sky above it. "It's easy to get caught up in one's own problems and forget others', isn't it?"

"Yeah, sure is…" Shiro had absolutely no idea what to say. Comforting and cheering up had never been his strong point. He was about to awkwardly dig his hands into his pockets, searching for something to say to her, when he remembered the crinkled paper in his hand. "Actually… I do have some family left." Shiro held out the envelope when she turned to look at him. "My uncle wants me over for dinner on my birthday."

"Congratulations", she smiled. "How old…?"

"Twenty."

"Wow. Even more congratulations, then." She swept her eyes down at the grass and then back up at him. "You can sit here if you want to, you know. Want a smoke?"

"Yeah, thanks. I've been dying for one but my lighter's out."

The grass was always pleasantly dry up there. With the little soil there was in the hovering flowerbed the plants were greedy for any water they could scavenge from it, and you never had to worry about getting muddy when you sat down. Shiro seated himself an appropriate distance from Sayuri, cigarette ready between his lips.

"That's why I like matches", Sayuri said as she dug around in her jacket pocket. "You always know when you're running low."

Sayuri put her own cigarette between her lips, lit the match for him and cupped her hand around it against the breeze. It suited her, in a way. She only ever wore kimonos when he saw her, just like her mother. Matches seemed to fit the old-school style.

"Thanks", he said in a cloud of grey smoke as Sayuri shook out the match. "That something you rolled yourself?"

"M-hm", she hummed affirmatively around her cigarette and put the box away. "This is sort of a compromise. Mom doesn't like my smoking habits." She wiggled her cigarette in place of saying that wasn't the only thing they disagreed on. "One of the things she has against it is that they add fishy things to the tobacco when they manufacture cigarettes, so she picked out fresh tobacco leaves from the garden and showed me how to dry them and shred them to make my own. She figured that if she couldn't make me stop she could at least make me smoke something less bad." Sayuri drew another breath on her home-made roll and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. The motion revealed little golden earrings shaped like four-leafed clovers. "I suspect it's another of her attempts at getting me interested in gardening. She told me you can flavour it, too – you know, while she was at it. Still, that is pretty useful." On the spur of the moment she held the cigarette out to him, offered up with a friendly smile. "This one's with extract of elderberry juice. Want to try?"

"…Yeah. If you don't mind."

Shiro accepted the roll and drew a breath that tasted very different from what he normally tasted. He could get used to that. Definitely.

"That's nice, actually. You could start selling these at the store."

Sayuri chuckled and accepted the cigarette back, shaking her head with a small smile.

"I don't think mom would like that." Her eyes fell on the crinkled envelope that now rested on the grass between them. "Did something happen to the invitation?"

Habit placed "nothing" on his tongue as the pre-programmed response, but Shiro never said it. He was tired; tired from Samael's lesson, tired of trying to figure out what to do. Tired of keeping secrets.

"I threw it in the trash", he said. "Thing is… This is the first time I hear from my uncle's family since my parents died." He paused. Sayuri remained quiet. Of course, death is no easy topic. "I'm kinda bitter over that, I guess. Being ignored for so long and then all of a sudden a birthday invitation."

Bitter, or suspicious…? Shiro drew a breath on his cigarette to undo the knot that had begun to form in his abdomen. Speaking of such things made his gut squirm – it always did. Even when he tried to keep it light and sound like it was no big deal, talking about his past and himself _was_ a big deal: _his_ big deal. His big deal that nobody else had any business poking in.

"Family is complicated either way, huh?" It was no big thing to Sayuri, and that let his shoulders relax a little. She sat calm as well water, resting one cheek on her drawn-up knees and looking at him with soft brown eyes. "They either care too much about you or too little."

"Mh."

"That why you came up here?"

"Yeah. To think. Actually, I'm not sure I care much about them either. They're basically strangers to me. I've talked more with you just these few minutes than I've talked with them in nine years."

Shiro fell silent. His eyes drifted over True Cross Town the way eyes do when they don't want to look at anything, just find distractions. When had that huge thing ever been a town? It must have been ages ago, when the school had just been built. His thoughts didn't go further than that, as suddenly a ladybug tumbled out of his hair and down on his glasses. Shiro flicked it away.

"It must have been tough being alone all those years." He could feel Sayuri's eyes on him from the side, even if his sight was blurry outside the frames of his glasses.

"In a way, I suppose", he mused. "In other ways it was easier. Things are much different when you're on your own." Some fear that – loneliness. To drift through life without anchor. Others can't bear to have anything tying them down. Shiro was never quite sure to which category he belonged. "There's no one to care about and no one to disappoint. I've grown used to the identity of a throw-away kid, with that kind of freedom. Now I'm invited to be somebody's cousin and somebody's nephew, and I… I don't know if I can do that."

The smoke from his cigarette drifted out over the city to join with the smoke from cars and chimneys and street food stands. Somewhere out there he had a family. Or something close to it, at least. Why did he avoid them? Did he really think they would turn their backs on him after going through the trouble of sending him an invitation? He had developed a nasty habit of mistrusting people, that's what. The doubts and suspicions he held against Samael had spilled over and infected his views of everyone – he even doubted himself, it seemed.

No, it wasn't doubt that made him hesitate; not really. It was fear. Fear of what Samael might have planned. Fear of seeking his family only to find that his child psychiatrist had been right, that he couldn't trust people enough to let them into his life and form real bonds.

Shiro's jaw clenched. Fear? He had promised himself not to run, and yet here he was: running. He had promised Kasumi he wouldn't give up without trying, and what was he doing now? What the fuck was he doing right now, letting fear control him – letting fear of _Samael_ control him – and watching his life sail by in the meantime? Screw it. Screw all of them: his parents, his psychiatrist, Samael. Screw doubts and fears. The past may be part of the present but damn if he would let it get in the way of his future.

"I'm gonna go visit them", he said firmly, eyes focused sharply on the sprawling city as if daring it to oppose his decision. "Not 'cause they invited me, but because it's about time."

"Determination is good." Sayuri was smiling; another ladybug, or perhaps the same one, had missed a step in his hair and fallen down on his nose. "Though you sound a bit like you're going out on a mission."

Shiro blinked, then ran his words over in his head a second time. Yeah, that had come out a bit dramatic.

"Well, I am – kind of", he smiled wryly to himself as he swatted the ladybug off his face as gently a he could. "Battling my own demons. That's an important part of being an exorcist, too."

"Pff. Barely twenty and already damaged by work."

The cigarette stump between her fingers hovered right at her lips, as if something held it back; something that was already occupying her mouth, but deliberated whether it should slip off her tongue or not. It carried the sensation of sticky and thorny, as of something that clings tightly onto its host and buries its roots deeper by the day. Shiro felt the tug inside in response to it, the tickling temptation to pour words on that seed of rot and bring it to bloom.

Battling his own demons indeed.

"Speaking of that, fighting demons… Just leave it if you think I'm being rude and it's none of my business, but how are you doing? You know, with…?" Sayuri forwarded the question with wary eyes.

"It's fine." Same old lie he always told – but what good would it do to tell the truth? There was nothing anyone could do about it. Keeping others from worrying over something that couldn't be fixed was the only thing he could do. "Not the way I expected to get famous but I guess it's something."

Bitterness and discomfort spawn a special kind of humour when they're wed together: the kind of humour that isn't really meant to entertain, only divert the conversation from unwanted topics.

"Always the cool guy. Though, I suppose there's no other option for you than to stay cool, not let it get to you…"

Sayuri smiled at her drawn-up knees, or maybe hid something that was supposed to be a smile. Instead of sucking another breath on her smoke she shifted and ground it out in the grass, still talking and still avoiding talking _to_ him.

"It's kind of inspirational. You got such an awful thing to carry all alone and you battle it out like this… It gives some perspective. Like, what are my problems compared to yours?" She dusted her hands off, pausing once to pry some dirt away from under her nail. "I think everyone needs to be reminded that we're not helpless, sometimes. That we can take on anything as long as we're determined we can do it." She nodded softly to herself, as if listening to her own advice and deeming it good. "I'll try to sort things out with mom. If we can compromise around cigarettes we should be able to compromise around other things too."

"That sounds like a good plan." Shiro smiled at the horizon – a genuine smile, one of the rare ones. It's easy to get caught up in one's own problems alright. He had never considered that, from an outside point of view, his mess could actually be a source of inspiration. That it could bring something _good_.

"There's this one thing I would like to sort out with you, too. Even if it's just something I've been thinking about. I… This is going to sound so stupid, and I feel so stupid…" Sayuri pushed her unruly brown hair back behind her ear again, even if it hadn't fallen down since last time she did so. "I was jealous of you."

Shiro truly couldn't see what there was to be jealous of, but he could sense the shift inside of her; that sticky something that had been sitting on the tip of her tongue had begun to pour out. He stayed silent, waiting for her to continue.

"When you started coming home to us for special classes it was like mom got the son she always wished she'd had. I'm a failure of a daughter – she's never said that, she'd never say something like that, but I know. I can't tend a garden. I can't get all happy-sappy over a bunch of flowers. She was always looking forward to when you were coming over. She planned out your lessons days in advance, what plants and stuff she was going to show you and… you know: stuff." Sayuri wrapped her arms around her legs and hugged them closer to her chest, speaking to her knees. "All this small stuff that I shouldn't get caught up on but that still made me feel like you were somehow stealing my mom away."

Shiro sat dumbstruck, listening, unaware that his cigarette had burnt out long ago. All the times he'd been to the supply shop for lessons, and he had never even considered…

"I think I saw it even more because I knew your parents are gone." Sayuri's eyebrows drew together in soft wrinkles, as if she were both angry and sad at the same time. "I feel awful for thinking like that. I don't know if mom thought like that, but she doted on you like a mom. She does that kind of thing, I see it all the time – spots a wilting flower and pours all her love and caring over it. She wanted to make you feel better. I understand it, with the situation you're in – I mean, exorcists always buzzed about it when they came to buy things. It was still… I wish she could've been that happy over me." Shiro wished dearly that somebody would tell him what to do. Should he hug her? Pat her arm, or hand? How did you do this kind of thing? She was _sad_ , and he had no idea how to fix it. "I know none of this is your fault. Obviously I _know_ that", she repeated with force, telling herself like you tell an unruly kid. "I know you never tried to replace me. I was still jealous, and I'm sorry for that."

Being apologised to can be an awkward thing, especially when you aren't even aware that somebody has wronged you – or believes that they have wronged you. Shiro reached out one hand and placed it on Sayuri's shoulder in what he hoped was a reassuring manner.

"You don't have to apologise. I know exactly what you mean – you can know something and still feel the opposite. I think it's in human nature to be jealous: we all wanna be important to someone." The words caught in his mouth, as if they had caused an allergic reaction and made his throat swell and burn. When he spoke again, Shiro did his best to push Samael out of his mind and focus on the girl next to him and _her_ situation. "I don't think you should beat yourself up over it, just be careful so it doesn't grow out of proportion. It's the kind of thing demons are drawn to: jealousy, guilt, pent-up anger – that stuff. I…" She hadn't flinched away from his touch, at least. He didn't know if it helped either. Or how long he should leave his hand there. God, he really sucked at these things. "Even bad feelings can be good, if you turn them around and use them as fuel. So if you're jealous of something – or someone – it can make you determined to improve and achieve what you want."

Shiro chanced a guess that that would be an appropriate moment to remove his hand again, and turned to grind his cigarette butt out on the walkway wall – only to make yet another ladybug lose its balance and fall out of his hair. This one bounced off his glasses and almost landed in his eye.

"…I'm crap at motivational talks."

It started with a snort and a smile, and from there Sayuri had somehow burst into bubbling, pealing laughter. Maybe it was tension wearing off; maybe Shiro was just comical when he tried to sound wise with his head full of beetles.

"No, I like your motivational talks", she smiled. It was a smile that saturated her whole face – maybe not thanks to his clumsy attempt at comforting but because she had cleared out what had been weighing on her mind. "Mind if I take some your little friends with me back home? Ladybugs are great for plants. They eat up the lice."

"You can take all of them." Shiro placed a hand in the grass and tilted sideways towards her. "In the matchbox, maybe?"

"Yeah, I was thinking that. Just hold still a moment…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Ladybugs** are drawn to light colours, such as white and yellow. It is my head canon that Shiro suffers from the ladybug problem throughout life. :3
> 
> This is your friendly future dentist discreetly advertising that, if you insist on poisoning yourself with cigarettes, you can at least do yourself the favour of smoking tobacco without all the crap they put in the factory made ones.


	79. Even little lions grow: Crossroads

Birthdays happened. They came and they went, inevitable as every other day of every other year. Shiro preferred to treat his birthdays like that. The intermittent stream of congratulations that came with birthdays made him feel awkward – a strange reaction, maybe. Most people enjoyed the attention that came with birthdays, but everything is relative.

Birthdays at an orphanage were a… funny business. "Ambiguous", if Shiro had felt inclined to use such words, but "funny" came closer to the sense of sneering irony that had marked those occasions. Most people are glad and proud to become parents; some… Some count sleeping hours and incoming yens, and find the arrival of a child something to mourn rather than celebrate. Most orphans where he was placed had been like that. Throw-aways. Unwanted goods deposited in storage where they wouldn't interfere with their parents' lives. Really, birthdays at orphanages…

It hadn't all begun at the orphanage, though. Shiro had been old when he was orphaned, old enough to have been shaped by the normal life of a child with a mother and a father. Old enough to remember how his parents had showered him with presents on the tenth of May, _drowned_ him in love and gratitude that finally, finally they had been blessed with a child. It had been amazing – or maybe he only thought so after they no longer could celebrate him? Who knew…

It had been embarrassing, at the same time; his parents had been so _very_ enthusiastic about it, and as he got older the embarrassing aspect won out. He had asked them, at some point, why they made such a big fuss over it.

Shiro was quite sure that that indiscernible feeling had begun to tint his birthday after he had asked. The feeling of something twisting his gut and worming reminders into his ears that had manifested when the birthday cake sat among the presents on the dining table. It was a day he got to celebrate because his three older siblings had left the world as bloody, misshapen lumps of flesh before they had even entered it. It was a day when he was grateful that his parents had kept trying, grateful that he had been the healthy one, the lucky one – grateful that the others had died so he got the chance to live.

They would have been grateful, too, if the lottery of life had chosen them; he was sure of that. So he shouldn't feel guilty. He shouldn't feel like celebrating his life somehow also celebrated their death. He hadn't had anything to do with what happened to them. He had been lucky where they hadn't, that was all.

It just made the celebration of his birthday feel that little bit weird every year.

* * *

The earliest congratulation came first thing in the morning, when Shiro dragged himself out of bed after a night of restless sleep where memories of dead classmates had haunted his dreams – again. Saburota's congratulation was neither embarrassing nor enthusiastic – in fact Shiro wondered what could possibly make Saburota act enthusiastic. His roommate's words carried a ring of social protocol, laced with a formality that made Shiro wonder if they came with attached hopes of something in return, like gratitude was just another way of indebting someone to doing favours.

Congratulations kept dropping in throughout the day, well-wishes from more or less familiar faces and some from people he didn't even know the name of. He returned the greetings with an awkward "thanks" and a reserved smile for the ones he actually could pin a name on. There weren't many of those. The children of generation '57 had graduated from the Academy a year ago and were adult Japanese citizens by now. The school's corridors and plazas were full of younger, unfamiliar faces that slowly learnt their way around the maze: and occasionally mistook Shiro for one of the teachers. It was more awkward for them than it was for him, in all honesty, but they had a point. Twenty years old and still in high school – what a fucking joke.

"Eyoo Shiro-kun~!"

The congratulation routine came to an abrupt end – or perhaps just a change of pace – at lunch break. Shiro had only just left the library where he had his Italian classes when Midori pounced on him: in the literal sense, of course, since this was Midori. Shiro wasn't given time to protest before he found himself kidnapped and slung over her shoulders like a felled deer.

"Bridal style next time, please – oh _god…_ "

The sprint distance had been short yet long enough for Shiro to decide that he did, after all, prefer bridal style carrying. It might bruise his manly pride, but he had more important manly parts that he did not want bruised against somebody's shoulder when _jumps_ were involved.

"What kills you doesn't make you stronger", Midori proclaimed with a grin and patted his shoulder reassuringly.

"Sharp observation." He grimaced at how choked his voice sounded. He was still hunched over slightly, waiting for the pain to bloom out fully in his gut and for the worst of the nausea to pass. "It's supposed to be 'what doesn't kill you makes you stronger'."

Midori took a moment to purse her lips and ponder if she really liked that version better than her own. Her left ear twitched twice, maybe from concentration and maybe from an annoying fly: and then conclusion flooded her face with a bright smile.

"So your children will get stronger, then. Kasumi-chan will be pleased." She clapped her hands together as if it were a done deal already that Honda Kasumi would be Fujimoto Kasumi. It did nothing to ease Shiro's gut pain. Only made him wish for a very quick change of subject.

"Was it really necessary to carry me like that all the way here?"

The end station of Midori's grab-and-run was ironically familiar. This was where it had all begun, two years ago when he climbed this dorm building with a bag of chòu dòufu clamped between his teeth. It was the same flat roof, the same humming iron air vents; the only difference was the puddles of rain water lingering like mirror shards on the raspy concrete.

Shiro's reflexes jolted into red alert when suddenly fire crackers went off in rapid succession. Midori flattened her big fox ears down against her head and grinned as she stepped aside to reveal her and Sen's latest handiwork.

You could tell when Midori was behind the decorations. Always.

They had occupied the space between one of the vents and the wall of the stairwell that opened onto the roof, and with joint efforts they had created a huge rope hammock – more like a triangular trampoline – and strung it up between the vent and the stairwell like a spider web. The firecrackers that hung from the edges of it flicked fiercely with the explosions. Sen and Ryuuji waved at them from the hammock, while simultaneously trying to make Sen's goblin stay put beneath and not try to climb up in it.

"Happy birthday, Shiro-san!"

Getting up in the hammock was easy; Shiro didn't mind climbing and the homemade rope ladder had been steadily secured. The hammock itself was made from everything the girls could get their hands on: some ropes, but mostly a plethora of tightly braided plastic bags. And it was swaying. Shiro's stomach clutched his intestines tightly and warned him that he had better stay really still if he wanted to eat anything of that big chocolate cake over there. His three classmates had already made themselves comfortable around the uprooted _Don't feed the ducks_ sign that lay on the hammock web, and the cake on top of it looked positively delicious. Something else moved in his gut: something fresh and warm and grateful.

"Wow, thank you guys! Who made this?"

Shiro counted twenty lit candles – and one singed twig – on it as he gingerly crawled over the knots and braids.

"My classmate in regular school", Midori replied proudly. "His mother works in a bakery – he says maybe they give me summer job!"

Shiro had a vague suspicion that said classmate might have certain hopes with his friendliness, but since that was only a suspicion – and mistakes were very effective teachers – he decided to leave that matter in Midori's hands. He could focus on finding a way to sit comfortably in the hammock instead.

"I'd like to see what kind of cakes you'd make", he said with the tone of a backhanded joke. "You got any summer job, Sen-chan?"

The Futotsuki girl smiled her distant, otherworldly smile.

"Eating cakes."

"My best customer~", Midori sang and snuggled her face into Sen's hair, putting her arms around the Tamer as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Shiro had, in all honesty, never really gotten used to the sight of two girls being affectionate towards each other. It didn't bother him – oh it _really_ didn't bother him – but it still wasn't something his mind could see without… skipping a beat. Or painting over one of them with the image of a guy. Or something.

"I doubt you will need any other customer than Sen-chan", Ryuuji joined the conversation with a smile at the two. "I still can't make sense of it, how you can eat so little normally but when it comes to sweets you're just a bottomless pit."

"Does it have to make sense?" Sen managed to look surprisingly sage when she said it, despite scratching her girlfriend behind the ear as she did. She and Midori really made a good couple.

Shiro's thoughts clicked suddenly, and he felt like an ass.

"Shit, guys, I'm sorry. It was your anniversary last month, wasn't it?" He didn't know why he was asking, because he knew that already. April 2nd, that was when the two had become a couple. "I completely forgot – I'm sorry. Belated congratulations."

"You were very busy, so we didn't want to… you know. Take up your time. I'm sorry, maybe we should have…"

Ryuuji's tone made Shiro cringe. The guy had outgrown much of his teenage insecurity and awkwardness, but he still had a habit of humbling himself to degrees that just made you feel like you had kicked a puppy.

"Don't apologise when I'm the one who should be apologising for forgetting something like that. I was busy, but that's no excuse. I shouldn't have forgotten about you; so I'm the one who's sorry. Have you got any knife for the cake?"

"Yeah, sure."

"We forgot, too", Sen said when Ryuuji fumbled with paper plates and a kitchen knife wrapped in a towel. "That is what Ryu-san is apologising for. We didn't invite you to the anniversary party because we forgot."

Shiro blinked. Oh. Not because they had thought he was busy, then. They had forgotten about him altogether. Ryuuji fumbled some more with the plates, trying to cover the flush of embarrassment that made its way out to his cheeks. Trust Sen to completely miss – or just ignore – that someone was trying to smooth over the situation.

"Well, you know what, it doesn't matter." Shiro waved the matter away and grabbed the kitchen knife. It shouldn't matter. They had all forgotten so they were even, right? "The past is the past. Who wants cake?"

Cake was served, and small talk settled over the four on the sunny rooftop. However, it isn't quite as easy as saying that something doesn't matter. Some things do matter, whether you like it or not; whether they matter to _you_ or not. That Shiro could brusquely put the anniversary matter out of his mind didn't mean that it left the minds of others.

It just meant that he seemed like he didn't care.

"But do you really think it would be possible?" Ryuuji wondered, three pieces of chocolate cake later. "To develop a demon radar? We don't even know if demons give off an electromagnetic field, and if they do we don't know if it's possible to distinguish between that and the field of the host."

"In theory, Matsuri-sensei says." Midori shrugged from her reclined position with her head in Sen's lap. "We live in age when technology makes quick advance."

It always came down to school talk, sooner or later. Since Shiro had skipped classes and moved ahead at lightning speed he was no longer in the same class as his old friends (he wasn't in any class, technically; he skipped between them, taking one class here and one class there and doing loads of self-studying), which meant that school talk was when he got caught up on what they had been doing all semester and vice versa.

"What of you, Shiro-kun?" Sen offered another spoonful of cake to her girlfriend. "Still making quick advance?"

"Trying to, at least. You'd think missions automatically get more difficult when you go out with senior teams but it's quite the lottery. When we were Pages we got missions to suit our level – there's still an evaluation of mission suitability for Esquires – but when you go out with licensed exorcists you don't always know what kind of situation you're walking into. We can get calls with just 'something potentially demonic is doing this and this over there' and when we get there it can be anything from goblins to yamaubas." Needless to say, everybody liked it better when it turned out to be yamaubas. Shiro had even heard exorcists that referred to goblins as 'creampuffs' because they were considered a light-weight pest control problem that was best dumped on Esquires. "Last mission I was on was clearing out a jorougumo nest in the subway. They made it sound harder than it was, but I-"

"Was told off by Toshio-sensei", Midori filled in for him when she had swallowed her cake. "We had mission supervised by him yesterday, and you were our bad example for how not to act on missions."

"Is that really ethical?" Ryuuji questioned with a concerned look. "Pointing someone out like that, it sounds… I don't know. You have nerves of steel, but _I_ would have felt awful if I was made the bad example."

"Ah-ah, sensei didn't say it was Shiro-kun. He said 'there was Aria-Dragoon student on last mission I supervised'." Midori jutted her jaw forward and squinted as she mimicked their Knight teacher's Look Of Disapproval. "'His gun jammed in middle of fight but he kept chanting.'"

"I was almost at the end of it", Shiro protested.

"'And if you see any of your team mates do that I want you to knock them out with blunt side of sword.'"

"Really? I must've pissed him off more than I thought." Shiro scratched his chin with a small but satisfied smile. "Thanks for the heads up: next time I'm out on mission I'll steer clear of the Knights."

"Maybe you should act like an Aria when you meister in Aria?" Sen suggested with something that might, if you looked closely, have been humour. "Better for the teamwork."

"But Shiro-kun _is_ good for teamwork!" Midori brightened up in her girlfriend's lap. "He makes sure the Doctors get practice."

Shiro self-consciously noted that, while Midori had manhandled him during the kidnapping, the wound on his arm had opened up and stained his shirt through the bandage. When he was an actual _licensed_ exorcist he would have access to an unlimited supply of uniform garments; as an overqualified Esquire he had to replenish his wardrobe from his own wallet. Scholarship or not, his wallet wasn't happy with that.

"That was kind of the point with meistering in more than just Aria", he muttered and attempted to roll his sleeve up past the injury to avoid getting more blood on it. "I can cover for myself as long as my damn gun doesn't jam."

"Your thoughts don't go all the way to door, hm~? Two Meisters is good thing, but is stupid to pick a Meister you aren't good at."

"I _am_ a good Aria, I'm just not good at acting like an Aria."

"Then you are no good Aria", Midori concluded with that kind of innocent obviousness only she could pull off.

"I'm not a conventional Aria, but I'm a good Aria that kicks serious ass in the field."

"And get his arm hurt."

"That has nothing to do with my Aria skills! Gimme a break, would you? My role as an Aria is to draw demons out for the others and get the chants right so I can exorcise them. Even the best Arias get hurt if their teammates don't cover them properly."

"The best Arias let their teammates cover them."

"Wha- You can't gauge _my_ skill based on how people _around me_ perform. My skill as an Aria depends on how well I can memorise verse and how well I can recite it, and I'm darn good at that."

"No good if demons kill you before you finish."

Midori was absolutely _awful_ to argue against. The way she saw the core of things you couldn't lead her along in an argument; she just stood stomping on the same – sore – spot that you tried to move away from until you yielded out of either fatigue or frustration.

"Fuihehehe nice noodle argument, Midori-chan!"

It wasn't until Ryuuji started laughing aloud that Shiro noticed how both he and Sen were enjoying the debate.

"Noodle argument?" Shiro had no clue what the hell a noodle argument was, and the way Midori winked at him suggested that he was the only one who didn't.

"She's not really arguing against you, you know. A noodle argument is when you start an argument over something and then tricks the one you argue with into tangling himself up in explaining a point you don't actually care about." Ryuuji nodded at the happily grinning half-demon. "Midori-chan meisters in that along with Doctor and Knight."

"We made it up on ski trip when instructor was mean to Ryu-kun for learning slow."

"I thought that was 'the skiscraper'?"

"No, the gauges under the skis were when she wanted to keep them from going outwards when she went down the slope."

"Just happened to work good on instructor, too", Midori snickered happily.

What followed was a tennis match of unfamiliar expressions flying back and forth, and Shiro couldn't keep up for shit. Ski trip? What ski trip? He hadn't heard of any- On the other hand he had been busy with church and studies all winter and just…

Not been there.

"You are good Aria and good Dragoon", Midori acknowledged at last: and then something glinted in her eyes. Something worried and painful. "But those are no good against the demons you fight." And then the worry was gone, as quickly as it had come, and Midori reverted to teasing and smiling; "Especially when you are no conventional Aria. Too itchy to stay behind the frontline, Shiro-kun~?"

"Yeah, maybe."

Itchy? That was one way to put it. Studies worked fine for taking his mind off the knot of emotion buried in his chest; it took a bit more to ease it loose. It took muscles bleeding adrenaline and demons disintegrating in miasma clouds to scratch that itch. It might make him reckless, yes. So? If any exorcist in True Cross could afford to act a bit reckless it was him. If any human exorcist in True Cross could take on a demon bare-handed it was him. Every time he did, every time he pushed beyond his body's limits, he grew stronger.

It didn't bring him closer to exorcising his own demons, but it felt good. It felt better than seeing Midori carry out those facial acrobatics to cover that she still worried about him. Shiro suppressed a churning, guilt-ridden feeling that she didn't want to spoil his birthday as he had spoiled hers.

"Oh, I think I heard Nii-san say something interesting, speaking of that – speaking of fighting demons in unusual ways, I mean."

Ryuuji did his best to fill the awkward silence, too. He always sounded excited when he spoke of his brother, Taichi. Had he told him that he was going to quit cram school? Shiro held back a heavy sigh and chalked that up as another thing on the list of stuff he didn't know while Ryuuji relayed stories from Taichi's stationing in the Soviet Union.

That the Order had managed to acquire a Soviet visa for Taichi was nothing short of a miracle. There was no love lost between Japan and the Soviet, not since they had begun quarrelling over ownership of a handful of islands over a century ago; add a couple of world wars and other conflicts to that and the picture was complete. None of that prevented enthusiasts like Taichi from nursing a profound fascination with Soviet, though. He had known where he wanted to go when he applied to cram school and he had gotten there through sheer stubbornness.

Given how enormous the Soviet Union was, it was no surprise that there were innumerable small, isolated societies where you could find local traditions of exorcism that differed vastly from the main traditions they were taught in cram school. Taichi, Ryuuji told them, had encountered one such tradition near the Black Sea. There, people were apparently fighting demons in hand-to-hand combat using some form of tattooed seals.

"Like Futotsuki seals…?" Shiro asked, genuinely interested. "Not related, obviously, but something similar?"

"In a way. Get this: the symbols don't work on demons if you inscribe them on paper or on objects, same as the Futotsuki symbols. You have to put them on a human."

"The Order likes to speak of faith but doesn't like what it doesn't understand", Sen added softly.

"But it depends on the origins of the symbols, too, doesn't it?" Shiro fell in. "I remember something like that from that book I read about the Futotsuki clan. The Order tried to match your symbols against known diagrams from their traditions to see if there was a relationship; if there was, they would consider using them." And if there wasn't, there was a good chance they would be listed as witchcraft. As more and more of the Futotsuki clan's traditions had become known – certain controversial practices like giving their children demon soulmates – the comparing studies had been abandoned and the clan had been classified as a demon worshipping cult. Its seals were not taught in the Order.

"I think they're doing that with these Black Sea tattoos – Taichi calls them that. He complained that he had to leaf through dusty old tomes to see if there were similar symbols in recorded history but I don't think he found anything." Ryuuji was completely engrossed in his tale and didn't notice when Sen's goblin snatched his empty paper plate and ate it. "He said they look a little bit like what you can find in Solomonian grimoirs and a little bit like what you can find in alchemical texts but most of all they look like a mix of both."

"You could get tattoos, Shiro-kun! Always armed when Aria – always match Kasumi-chan~" Midori winked.

"Nah. Tattoos and glasses aren't a good combo", he said, absentmindedly cleaning his ear with his little finger. "But it's more the idea of having something stuck on my body for the rest of my life. I don't think I'm so keen on that."

"That kind of does contradict how you act on missions, you know", Ryuuji pointed out and prodded Shiro's bandaged arm.

"Oi, it's bleeding well enough on its own. Anyway scars are different: they're a side-effect of living. It's-" It was on his tongue to say that it would draw attention if a priest had tattoos, but that part of his Roman reassignment would be suspicious to people who knew him. "Kinda manly, don't you think? Anyway, about your brother: have you told him yet?"

It turned out that Ryuuji had gone through with his intention to quit cram school. Taichi had taken the news well, telling him that of course not all people were cut out to become exorcists. So Ryuuji was now a civilian citizen again – and it suited him. Somewhere deep down Shiro was convinced that at least some of the insecurity Ryuuji used to radiate was there because he didn't feel like exorcism was his calling. Now that he had declined those responsibilities he seemed like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

"So does that mean you'll be focusing everything on your music?" Shiro asked while meticulously scraping the last bits of orange-flavoured chocolate icing from his paper plate. "Like you're gonna go on tour with the folk music troupe again this summer?"

"Ryuuji-kun is making a moooovieeee~!" Midori happily threw her hands in the air, making the web sway and making Shiro instinctively grab the cords he sat on to hold himself still. In the process he dropped his plastic spoon, but Sen handed him a new one in the blink of an eye. Shiro didn't immediately take it, though.

"A movie? You're kidding?"

"Yeah!" Ryuuji beamed. "I mean no! No, I'm not kidding. We really are making a movie, or sort of. Didn't I…? Geez, sorry, I can't believe I forgot to tell you – I feel like it's the only thing I've been talking about for weeks." Ryuuji scratched the back of his head in embarrassment and managed to look both proud and shy at the same time.

Something settled in Shiro's chest then. It was hollow at the same time as it was heavy as lead, and he had pinned it down in split seconds. It was the feeling he used to get when he was twelve or so, when he peered through the gates of the orphanage and saw other kids walking past, holding hands with their mom or dad. That very special feeling of seeing others have what you don't.

"I'm not allowed to say what the title is, but it's going to be a samurai film. Basically they wanted some folk music elements in it, for the historical feeling, so they asked the troupe I play in, and…" He swept his arms out with an incredulous smile. "We're making a movie."

Shiro swallowed the void of lead in his chest and put on his best face of approval.

"That's awesome – congratulations! But you'll tell us the title afterwards, right?" _So we can go watch it_. He had meant to say that, but the words turned around on his tongue and stabbed him with a sharp reminder that he wouldn't be there to watch it with them.

…In a way, it was as if he had already left.

"You can bet I will! Oh, has everybody finished eating? Alright, time to open the presents!"

Shiro decided that the feeling that he was drifting away, that he wasn't part of their tight-knit group anymore, was wrong. He shoved it aside as far back in his mind as he could, and tried to soak in the expectant faces of his friends instead. They had thrown him a birthday party, hadn't they? They cared. Their friendship may have been thinned and frayed at the edges, but they were still there for him.

"I'm really grateful you did this, guys."

Shiro turned the first present over carefully in his hands, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. It was Midori's, clearly; it looked like she had gotten hold of one of the school's old, discarded banners and wrapped the gift in that. He opened it gingerly, not sure what was going to come out of it.

" _Wow_. You really…? Midori-chan you could _sell_ these. Thank you!"

He turned the sculpture to admire it from all angles. It was a lion made from wire – probably the wire he had given her on her birthday in March – and it was just unbelievable how she had managed to bring out the texture of the mane and all the little details; it even had teeth and claws.

"Little lion goes to Rome", Midori sang to some improvised melody, "and big lion comes back to Japan~" Then, she sank her eyes into him like grappling hooks. "Right?"

"Right. No goodbyes", he smiled warmly.

"No goodbyes." Midori beamed back at him, satisfied with his reply.

"Alright, next is… Sen-chan." She had at least used paper for her present. It came in two parts tied together: one large and flat and one shapeless, hard lump. The flat one turned out to be a stack of fine calligraphy paper. The lump contained an inkstone, an inkstick, and a calligraphy brush with bamboo body and a brush tip of an unmistakeable red colour.

"You made it from Midori-chan's hair?" Shiro let the tip run over his finger. It was incredibly soft and felt like it would soak up ink well.

"It grows fast", was Sen's only comment to that. "We expect letters from Rome."

"Be warned, they're gonna look like they were written by a five year old. It's been ages since I wrote with a brush." Smiling, Shiro set the brush and ink aside carefully on the parcel with the papers. "Thank you. And Ryuuji-san's…"

Ryuuji's gift was a cube that rattled in an unidentifiable manner when he handled it. When Shiro opened it his lap was flooded by a good ten cassette tapes in cases. The ones he spotted first were the ones he expected to get from Ryuuji: there was Goro Yamaguchi and other traditional stuff from gagaku to ondo music. Then there were enka artists whose names he recognised although he had no idea what their music sounded like – Misora Hibari, Fuji Keiko, Koga Masao. And then there were more Western sounding bands that he actually knew of, like Happy End, Tomita Isao, Carol, and even one tape with The Mops. The last one gave Shiro an unwelcome flashback of discussing music with Samael once. As soon as he had mentioned that he liked Mops, the demon had had a fit of maniacal giggles. Shiro had never been able to find out why.

"I hope it's not- I wasn't sure what you liked, so I picked a bit of everything and… uh, yeah, I hope there's something there that you like." Ryuuji tried really hard not to start fidgeting with his tie, and while he succeeded quite well with that it didn't improve his nervous stumbling much. "Nii-san says the thing he misses the most when he's stationed abroad, except the food, is Japanese music, so… Happy birthday?"

Yeah… It was, wasn't it? Better than he had hoped for. Bearing in mind how things could have turned out, Shiro did consider this a happy birthday.

"Thank you, guys", he smiled, taking an uncharacteristic moment to look at his three friends and commit them to memory. "I'm pretty sure I'll be able to stave off the homesickness with this."

* * *

The memory of sitting on the roof with his friends kept glowing softly in Shiro's chest for the rest of the day. Then school ended, and students poured out on campus to enjoy the warm afternoon. They fanned out in different groups and different directions, filled with summer spirit and eager to make the most of their spare time. There were places to go eat and shops to check out before everything closed for the day, and all these things formed a susurrus atmosphere of youthful excitement in the air.

The crowds thinned, and the chatter dispersed, and in the wake of summer spirit one student walked alone, aloof, and silent across the campus grounds. The chirping of birds didn't reach his ears. The budding greenery of the Academy's flowerbeds passed him by unnoticed. His thoughts were elsewhere, on a mission that involved demons he had allowed to control his actions far too long.

* * *

Shiro stepped off the tram in Western True Cross Town and adjusted his uniform jacket for the twelfth time or more. Sentou was one of the smaller stations. It had a ticket booth in the far corner, three benches with brass armrests along the concrete wall that supported the roof, and that was all. The moment he got off on the platform he was immediately assaulted by the smell. It didn't smell bad – or good, for that matter – but it smelt _familiar_. It smelt of memories.

The soft whiff of hot steam got more prominent when he walked down the stairs from the station. It was a smell that carried the memory of a thousand days of walking to elementary school past that public bath, across the walk bridge over the highway and then a right turn at the dry cleaning facility after three blocks. Shiro stopped when he reached the ground. Stopped and just stood there. He knew the way as clearly as if it had been yesterday, remembered times when he had forgotten his bento box and rushed back home, tripped and fallen and ran again: and how his mom had fussed over his bleeding knee so that he had been late for school once she let him go. The memories were everywhere, etched into the asphalt and the brick, bloomed in signs in shop windows and cracks across the pavement, everywhere…

Shiro was so overwhelmed that it took two "excuse me" from the young mother with the baby cart before he noticed her and stepped out of the way. The sidewalk hadn't seemed that narrow when he was eight.

It's a strange feeling; to… outgrow one's past. To come back and find that everything is the same and entirely different. Time has a weird way with things. Some change, some remain the same. Most of all, people change. Despite some stores being closed and others opened, and the once worn road crossings being freshly painted, what had changed most of all was Shiro himself.

As he walked, Sayuri's words came back to him several times to gloat, pat him on the shoulder and point out how right she was. "Damaged by work". You get damaged by every kind of work – Shiro just hadn't been able to gauge how damaged he was until now, when he was outside the community of exorcists and the warded confines of True Cross Academy. Here, there were demons _everywhere_. No one really minded the coal tars that teemed around gloomy thoughts like mosquito swarms. A couple of gremlins were tinkering with a vending machine in the corner of the street, hoping to learn how it worked by unscrewing something here and pulling something loose there. The demons had been there all the time, of course. What was different now was that Shiro could see them, and that he kept reflexively reaching for a gun that wasn't there. Although he had his exorcist license in hand _technically_ , he didn't actually have a card and an ID-number that gave him permission to carry firearms outside missions.

Damaged by work… funny. It's all about habit, when you break it down. What you've grown used to and what you haven't. Fighting demons; no problem. Eating with relatives? He had no idea how to do that.

Some five blocks farther, Shiro spotted a middle-aged man on the sidewalk across the road, yanking the leash of his dog and snapping harsh words at it for being an undomesticated pest. The dog kept barking and tugging, teased by a hobgoblin that had figured out the animal couldn't reach it for the leash. Shiro had the death verse on his lips and… No. If he started chanting the demons would get agitated in the midst of all civilians; better to let the reflex pass, turn a blind eye and keep walking. He had enough to think about without getting involved.

" _They know nothing about demons_." At least he assumed his relatives didn't. " _They know nothing about Satan's vessel or what went down in Deep Keep. There's no reason they would dislike me._ "

Arguing against the tight knot of anxious flight instinct in one's gut is an interesting thing. For one, that knot isn't good at listening. At all. And despite that, it has its own very convincing arguments against your reasoning.

_They didn't want you nine years ago: why would they want you now?_

Habit. Shiro snorted out a humourless laugh at himself. He had already concluded once that habit held power, but that didn't seem to be enough – not enough to apply what he had understood, at any rate. He was walking the circle tracks of habit right now, with that thought: habit could conceal danger by making you used to it, yes, but it could conceal other things too; like weakness. Or fear. Or cowardice.

For nine years Shiro had fed the habit of avoiding his relatives. He was not about to run from it this time: he just took a detour, to another place he hadn't visited in many years.

" _Like a warm-up_ ", he thought to himself as he passed the gates and felt the gravel crunch under his shoes.

The Western district of True Cross had two graveyards, referred to without embellishments as the Old Graveyard and the New Graveyard. The Fujimoto family hadn't lived in True Cross Town long enough to have anybody buried in the Old Graveyard, which Shiro had only seen from the outside. The New Graveyard was bigger; a terraced sweep of earth carved into the side of a hill and fenced in with sharp metal spikes, as if to keep the dead from escaping in case they started walking.

" _Damaged by work_ ", he observed with disinterest.

Shiro squinted at the afternoon sun that shone brightly on the square, white stone pillars. They had seemed like a forest when he was little, a maze of white walls and eyeless gazes. Now they had shrunk into a grain field, growing and thriving on the remains as more were born and more were buried.

Would they grow until one day there was no one left to bury the dead, and all of earth was covered in forests and fields of square, white stone pillars…?

Slowly, Shiro followed the crunching path into the cemetery. The fog of memories was thick there, too. They woke from hibernation between the graves, memories of coming here for Obon when he was little. Memories of burning incense and sending lanterns down the river, honouring a grandfather he had never even met; memories buried deep in bone and flesh that knew the way even though it all looked different from his full-grown point of view.

The first Fujimoto grave was nondescriptly white, like all the others. It was with some surprise that Shiro noticed his grandmother's name, Aiko, filled in with red paint. She was still alive…? She must be nearing eighty by now. Her husband, Kanetake, had been dead for a good thirty years but she had been adamant about remarrying.

" _Didn't dad complain about that all the time…? That it was too early for her to be moving in with her children?_ "

The rest of the way he racked his mind in search of how matters had been solved regarding his grandmother, but the only clear memory he seemed to have of her was the ubiquitous natto.

The second Fujimoto family grave was unmistakeable; neglected, striped with bird shit and surrounded by weeds that dotted the gravel patch around it. If graves had been sentient things, the neighbouring headstones would have leaned away from it in disgust.

Shiro's steps slowed… and stopped. What do you say to a grave? "Long time no see?" He sat down on his haunches, level with the names etched into the stone beneath discoloured lichens.

_Fujimoto Hideo  
Fujimoto Nanako_

At each other's side in death but not in life.

" _Some weird culture we have, considering suicide honourable_ ", he mused. He agreed more with the Catholic on that particular point. Suicide was a coward's way out. A selfish person's way out. For them it was over; for the ones left behind…

Shiro gazed at the grave. The shabbiness of it seemed fitting, almost comforting; at least in death the façade of perfection was crushed and gone.

" _You didn't buy me any honour back. That was never the point either, was it? It was always about you. Your honour. Your lives._ "

There it was, as painful and piercing as it had been then. The feeling of betrayal. Of being abandoned. Unwanted. It hurt just like it had then, flared inside him just like it had then, and for the briefest of moments Shiro could almost hear his own voice, eleven years old, screaming _what about me?!  
_  
" _Yeah, what about me?_ " his adult voice replied, blunt with the adult knowledge that in the end, nobody cares. In the end the only one you can rely on is yourself. " _All I got was the burdens you didn't want._ "

…But who ever _wants_ burdens? Hideo and Nanako hadn't. They had wanted to escape their problems so badly they had ended their lives to do it. Lots of people did. Human nature gave two options for solving issues, two basic options that divided mankind in two types: those who ran and those who fought. Shiro's parents had been runners, and he had been left behind – not because they had intended it that way, not because they wanted to betray him: not for any reason at all. Demons did such things by design, to harm, but Hideo and Nanako had just… Been human.

Somehow, that insight was as liberating and as it was devastating.

"I turn twenty today." His voice sounded dissonantly loud in the silence. The grave didn't seem to mind; it remained still and tranquil in the face of the statement. "I've bought my first legal carton of cigarettes. Doesn't do much good since my lighter's out. I thought I'd do it 'cause I could."

Without really knowing why, Shiro pulled the carton out of his pocket and leant forward to place it before the grave. It wasn't incense of the traditional kind, and it wasn't lit, but he reasoned it would do as much good there as it would in his pocket. The grave looked less dead that way.

"I graduate as an exorcist in a couple weeks", he continued, feeling less and less awkward and more and more like he wanted to… get things out. "It's gonna be kinda nice to have a real job again. Less nice to have more paper work, but that's life." Without anything else to do, he started to absentmindedly pull weeds out of the gravel. His summer as school janitor had created certain habits, too. "I'm off to visit uncle Satoshi. Don't know what you would've thought of that. I remember you didn't get along - don't remember why. I'm not even sure I ever knew why."

Had there been a reason why…? Or had it just been human nature screwing things up?

Shiro propped his lower arms up on his knees and let them dangle limply, backs of his hands almost touching before him. He nearly lost his balance and tipped backwards before well-used muscles attuned themselves to the squatting position. The grave waited, silent, wondering if he would continue or if he was done.

There was nothing particularly comical about the thought, and yet the corners of his lips twitched upward.

"Knowing you, it was some small thing you ignored till it grew huge." The smile sank slowly, gone as swift as it had come. The grave remained silent. "Some small thing that grew. To think that was all it took to get you here." And to get Shiro there. He was older now than he had been then. A little more mature. A little better acquainted with life. He was not… the same child that had hated his parents to the depths of hell when they left him, one after the other. "There's worse things to be than neglectful", he confided to the grave, quietly. "You screwed up: people do that, even if they don't mean to. I know that." His lips quirked into a wizened smile again. "Better than I'd like to."

People screw up. Then they do their best to fix it. Then it fails, and lines they had never thought they'd cross seem like a better and better way out of the mess.

"I've grown up, I suppose. Made my own stupid mistakes and grown wiser." For a long time, he stared at the grave, trying to fasten the memories of his parents' faces on the dirty surface. "Your mistakes were just as stupid", he said, weighing his next words carefully on his tongue. He wanted to know they were true before they came out. "But I don't think I can hate you for them anymore."

The grave said nothing. No reproach, no gratitude; if his heart was any lighter, it was by a fraction too small to notice. He had made his peace, sort of – with the mistakes of his parents. Not with his own.

And in the stillness something stirred, slow and sluggish as a hedgehog crawling out of winter hibernation.

Shiro remembered the sandy confines of a playground, vast in a child's eyes and shimmering with images of fortresses that were just waiting to be built. It had been him and cousin Akane against her older sister, Tomoe. Akane was an undefined blur of laughter behind him while Tomoe drifted like a mirage ahead of them on her long legs, as easy to catch as the moon. She'd had her school uniform on, bright white and navy blue, with her yellow scarf in hand and his short fingers trying in vain to snatch it. And then the swing: Tomoe had rushed right through the swings, elegant as a deer, and when Shiro had tried to do the same he had gotten one right in his face. That, he remembered clearly. That and sitting in his mom's lap on the park bench while she pressed a cold bottle of mineral water to his throbbing lip, way too hard for comfort. Aunt Noriko had been there, too. They had fussed over him and he had been angry at them – and at himself. He hadn't wanted to be a crybaby in front of Akane, because Akane was a Girl, and he was a Boy. Boys should be strong and cool so that girls could admire them.

"…I called aunt Noriko fat, didn't I?" The memory plopped out of his mouth as soon as it occurred to him that she had had her huge baby belly that time. "No, I asked you why she was fat – when she was pregnant with my youngest cousin." Cousin… what? Shiro scrunched his eyebrows together and quietly mouthed the names of his cousins in order: Saki, Tomoe, Akane… the last name refused to turn up. He sighed and rubbed the wrinkles from his forehead. Great. Couldn't even remember her name. "This is going to be awkward, isn't it?"

The grave didn't reply this time either. Shiro stretched his hand forward, weighing on the balls of his feet where he sat. He fished a cigarette out of the carton, on the off chance he could smoke at uncle Satoshi's. On second thought, he fished out two cigarettes. Didn't know how long into the evening he might stay.

"One from each of you, as a birthday present." Shiro rose smoothly to his feet, slipping the smokes into the chest pocket of his school uniform blazer as he did. He stared at the grave for a second, this grave that was younger than most and more neglected than most, with uprooted weeds scattered haphazardly about the gravel patch. Then he put his palms together, for the first time in a decade, and bowed. "Wish me luck."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Yamauba** is a demon or monster hag that may or may not be cannibalistic.
> 
>  **Painting names red on graves** isn't so common anymore, from what I've been able to find, but I remember seeing it in a (very beautiful) graveyard in Kyoto. Back in the day it was more economical to etch the whole family's names into the stone at once, and to distinguish between the dead ones and the living ones you filled the names of the living with red paint; when they died it was removed.


	80. Even little lions grow: Tatemae

Shiro drew four slow, metallic-scented breaths in the stairwell to convince his gut that the apartment door before him was as harmless as any other apartment door, and that it was ridiculous to think anything else.

The bell gave a soft, pleasant duo of tones on the other side of the door when he rang it. Steps. Shiro caught himself holding his breath and wondered just when his body would stop acting stupid about this. He had been on the verge of turning around at least three times on his way there, and for what? It wasn't like there was going to be any demon waiting for him in there, just humans. Just humans.

…but damn if they weren't more frightening than demons sometimes.

"Shiro-san, welcome!"

Shiro's first, random thought was that uncle Satoshi didn't look much like his brother, aside his build.

Hideo and Satoshi had been like the pines that grow on cliffs leaning over the sea; forced to grow in meagre soil, struggling against the harsh winds for every centimetre that they gain. The Great Depression and the Second World War had made food scarce and work scarcer, a time that made the people of Japan grow short and sinewy and tough as bones. But bones are rounded; smooth. Uncle Satoshi was hard as rock, full of jagged angles; almost as if the jutting cheekbones strove to grow into a shelf to support the thin-rimmed glasses on his nose. His hair was greying, something that made his sharply hewn features seem like he was made of granite with the paint flaking off in places.

"Uncle." It was an unfamiliar word on his lips, but he didn't linger on it as he bowed, returning the smile.

…somehow, Satoshi's scanning gaze was worse than Samael's. Not because it was sharp, but because it was soft.

"Look at you, how much you've grown. Congratulations on the big day, Shiro-san." Satoshi sounded proud, as if he had been congratulating his own son on turning twenty. And then, as quick as it had come, the pride was replaced with concern: "But what has happened with your hair? Are you bleaching it?"

The trace of disapproval in the question made Shiro smile to himself. Old people stuck to old ways. His hair would probably be a topic of discussion for everyone that met him until he was old enough to actually go silver; until then, he had a lie handy for questions like Satoshi's.

"No, I'm just greying early: study stress, I'm told."

At that, the smile on Satoshi's face brightened. It looked very much like his brother's: charming, reassured, with a hint of mischief hiding in the corners.

"Is that so? What do you study?"

"Exorcism." Shiro raised his hand to gesture at the emblem of True Cross Academy on the chest of his blazer. "I graduate this semester. With honours."

He honestly didn't know why he added that. It was true, but he felt like… Shiro needed a moment to properly grasp what it felt like: like he was throwing his honours out there like a shield, or proof; like he had something to prove to Satoshi. …Or it was just nervous prattle, plain and simple.

"With honours", Satoshi echoed, a smile on his lips. "Make sure to tell us when so we can be there to congratulate you."

"I will." Shiro felt like he was in a slight daze. "I can't recall the exact date but it's in early June."

"June? Ah, that's right: True Cross Academy has its own system."

"Yeah, it has its traditions. It was awful when you never had holidays at the same time as everyone else." He shrugged. "But kinda nice not to have to study and wear uniform when summer's at its hottest."

"Oh I remember." Satoshi shook his head, smiling. "Summer and uniform, I certainly don't miss that. Ah, where are my manners! Let's not talk in the hall: come in. Your cousins are helping with the meal preparations but we have some time before we eat. Did your trip here go well?"

"I guess. It was nothing special. It was a strange feeling to step off on that station and see these familiar streets again, though. It's been a while."

"It has. I look forward to hearing how you've been. We all do."

Shiro crouched down to undo his shoes, feeling as though some of the knots in his gut were loosening as well. It looked more and more like he had worked himself up more than necessary over this.

While he was untying his shoes, Shiro was temporarily distracted by the small set of drawers standing on the single step where the genkan ended and the rest of the apartment commenced. It was a simple piece of furniture, light wood, made for storing gloves and scarves and other small things. It was a little worn around the corners, the way you can expect in a household raising four children, with the chafed flakes of a sticker bravely clinging to its side despite someone's efforts to peel it off. There was no reason his eyes would linger on something like that… and yet they did.

Shoes discarded, Shiro followed Satoshi through a straight corridor, gaze immediately darting from the colour of the walls to the balding spot on the crown of Satoshi's head, and then on to scrutinizing the design of the corridor's light switch. It made him… not dizzy – not physically dizzy, at least. But there was a surreal tint to everything that made it hard to grasp, with every little detail jumping out at his eyes as if his brain needed to confirm that everything was really there – that _he_ was really there – before he could believe it. He was in his uncle's apartment, and while it was really just an apartment it was his uncle's apartment. And he was in it. And that _was_ surreal. Every part of it, from that peeled-off sticker to the photographs that patched the anonymous light grey of the corridor walls. Most of the frames showed weddings; one, two, three of them. One wedding photo was in black and white, probably Satoshi's and Noriko's own. Then there was another photo in black and white.

Satoshi noticed him stopping and came to stand next to him.

"Yes, there we are. All three of us. This is me." He pointed a thin finger at the boy to the left in the photograph. The army uniform on him looked like it was brand new, with ironed jacket and spotless leg straps tied around his shins. "Seventeen years old, I had only just been conscripted for training", he told him, with that special nostalgia people feel when they speak of old prides and achievements. "I already knew a lot from Otou-san and Nii-san. You can tell who this is, no?"

To be honest, that was the reason Shiro had stopped so suddenly at that photo. It might as well have been a mirror, an enchanted one that showed the world in black-and-white and on smaller scale. The figure to the right stood straight and proud in his bulky jumpsuit uniform, with fur-trimmed lapels and a white scarf sticking up in the lining at his neck. His hair was trimmed short, like his father's and his brother's, and in his left hand was a leather cap and goggles that hung almost casually against his leg.

"Dad was a pilot?"

"He never told you?"

"No." The reply was absentminded. Shiro was fully occupied just… staring. "We really look alike. I've never seen him so… He must have been about my age when this was taken."

"Twenty-one", Satoshi confirmed with a nod. "This photo is from 1940, just before we went separate ways for training. I went to Komakado, Nii-san to Tokorozawa. One year later his regiment was given the honour to start the war."

The surreal feeling wavered like air over sun-baked asphalt when the words rammed into Shiro's ears. His elementary school class had had work projects about the war, yes – had been to war memorials and museums. Lots of those things. He had read about the attack on Pearl Harbor, the spark that drew fire onto Japan and obliterated two of her cities before the Emperor declared the war was over.

His dad had…?

"I'm not surprised Nii-san never told you." Satoshi's voice was unreadable, as if he wasn't surprised but still had had some form of expectation. "He wasn't the same man after the war. It broke his spirit. Broke his honour."

By then, Shiro knew his uncle's voice was unreadable because there was something he wanted to hide. A feeling he didn't want to show. If he let the shield around his heart drop for a second he might be able to pick up on… No. Never again. He would not risk human lives – not for curiosity, not for pleasure or any other desires.

"Did he tell you who this is?"

Satoshi pointed to the last figure in the photograph. This man's uniform had seen war, not just training camps. He was only slightly taller than his sons, and must have been middle-aged but wore the face of one who had aged beyond his years. Shiro could tell where Satoshi got his sharp bone structure from.

"That's Fujimoto Kanetake." It was meant to come out as a question, but it sounded more like a statement. "I've never seen any photos of him but I know he was my granddad."

"Grandfather", Satoshi corrected; softly, but sternly.

"He's…" _He's dead, it's not like he's gonna hear it_. But that would have been rude to say, and Shiro didn't feel like being rude was a step in a good direction. "He's different from what I had imagined. I visited the grave before I went here. Grandmother is still alive?"

"Yes. She's in the dining room. Her memory is beginning to falter now, but she knows you will be here today and she's looking forward to seeing you very much. Just remember to speak loud and clear to her."

Shiro nodded, trying to remember when he last had seen granny Aiko. It must have been on Obon, when families came together to wash the graves of their departed. Come to think of it… it had always just been him and his family on Obon. Not once had he seen Satoshi's family at the grave, even if he was also Kanetake's son and should honour his dead father. Satoshi _did_ go to the grave, obviously, since it was clean and well kept.

"Did your family pray at a different time? On Obon?"

"Yes. Nii-san wanted it that way", he said curtly. Then, after a brief pause: "I'm guessing he didn't tell you that the grave is empty, that Otou-san's ashes aren't there?"

Shiro blinked.

"Uh, no…"

A deep, unsettling feeling burrowed in Shiro's chest. It reminded him of when his whole class had known that Midori and Sen dated, without telling him. That had been for laughs, for half a year, but this…? All these secrets, all this silence – why?

Why did his parents insist on betraying his trust even after he had finally accepted their reasons?

"Uncle… I know you and dad didn't talk but do you have any idea why he never told me anything? Why mom never- Did she even know about this? About dad and the war and grandda-father?"

To Shiro's surprise, Satoshi placed a hand on his shoulder. The touch itself was unexpected, but even more so was the unspoken weight it carried – a weight very apparent in in Satoshi's eyes. His face remained calm and schooled, but his eyes were smouldering: and Shiro could imagine what his own face looked like, those times the anger flared up inside him.

"Come into my study, Shiro-san. I will tell you everything."

* * *

The study lay behind the corridor's only door. It would have been a room of average size if not for the shelves and archive lockers that crammed the desk in on a square so small Satoshi had to inch past it sideways. His goal was the window blinds; the study was facing South, like Shiro's dorm room, which meant that during daytime it would get sweltering hot in there. Satoshi, however, had a ceiling fan installed alongside the blinds, so it couldn't be that bad.

"It's not a happy story", he said, tugging the string and hauling the blinds up with efficient movements. "But I don't think you expected it to be."

"Not really." Shiro wanted to put his hands in his pockets, to have them somewhere, but opted for clasping them behind his back instead.

The warm glow of afternoon spilled into the room when the blinds came up. It illuminated a galaxy of dust particles in the study, but aside that the room itself was neatly kept. Sunlight shone on rows and rows of arch files on the shelves, and cast bright reflections from three massive archive lockers to the left of the desk. It was the room of someone orderly who kept private life and business separate, without a single photograph of loved ones or missed ones.

"Please, sit." Satoshi motioned to the chair before the desk and seemed to smile although he wasn't. If he smiled it was to put Shiro at ease, not because he had anything to smile about.

But Shiro did take a seat. Satoshi followed, sinking down into the larger chair behind the desk with a creak that could have been his knees as well as the leather upholstering of the chair.

"The war." Uncle Satoshi adjusted himself to sit comfortably, letting the words mingle with the dust particles in the air. Once he had settled, he folded his hands on the empty desk surface and seemed to consider his next words. "The war was terrible." Satoshi flicked a glance at Shiro's eyes before settling it back around the height of his shirt collar. "Towards the end we had no more iron or steel. But we didn't give up. We were prepared to fight the Ame-koh with sharpened bamboo spears and wooden bullets. I was given one such bamboo spear. Two metres long, barely thick as a man's wrist." Satoshi grasped his own wrist with one hand, as if to illustrate the measurement. "We knew we couldn't win with such weapons. Our Captain kept holding speeches saying that we would, because our spirit was stronger than that of the Ame-koh. Anyone could tell we wouldn't. We all knew we wouldn't. But we didn't give up." There was a glow in Satoshi's eyes when he spoke; a glow of pride, a glow of strength, and of something hard and uncompromising. "Because our spirit _was_ stronger than that of the Ame-koh. Had they been left with only spears to fight with, they would have surrendered: we didn't. We were going to fight to the end and die to defend our country."

When Samael held long monologues, as he liked to do, Shiro was a poor listener for several reasons – the demon's self-absorbed nature being the least of them. But when humans speak, it's because they have something they want to share, or need to share. So Shiro listened, and did so with genuine attention; because at some point Satoshi's story would also become his story, when he finally learnt of his dad's reasons.

"I can't expect you to understand what that is like, without having experienced it", Satoshi mused, as if trying to gauge the gap between his own experiences and his nephew's. "It's a special moment, to feel that. Your life; it suddenly matters, because you know you will be doing something great with it. That, the Captain was right about. At the end of each such speech he would raise his sword, and we all began singing Doki no Sakura. The true anthem of Japan." Yes, this was something Satoshi needed to share. One could see the emotion glistening in the corners of his eyes, hear it swell in his controlled voice, even when he did his best to maintain a collected appearance. "I thought of my father and brother when we sang. I hoped that they, too, got to know that feeling, wherever they were; by then it was impossible to get accurate reports, you see. What I knew was that we had only a handful operational planes left in the Imperial Air Force, and our pilots were assigned either to die in tokkou tai attacks or fight on the ground", Satoshi confided, face etched with sombre memories and a stern pride. "We fought. We died. Many friends of mine died. Then the Ame-koh dropped the bombs."

The look Satoshi gave him then spoke of things Shiro could never imagine, and never wanted to imagine. Brief as it was, the silence that followed contained the silent homage of a nation.

"Pikadon", Satoshi murmured. A word weighing a hundred thousand lives. "It became our new word for destruction when destruction wasn't enough. I didn't see when it hit, but the remainders of my battalion cleared up what once was Hiroshima – another thing you can't imagine if you weren't there. Everything was rubble. Everything was burnt."

Shiro nodded quietly. He had seen photographs of the city after the bomb: a wasteland of pulverised buildings and black-burnt trees.

"For days we did nothing but burn bodies. Day and night, the fires burnt – there was no time to identify the dead." Satoshi rubbed a thumb over his knuckles, slowly, as if contemplating the work those old hands had done. "We wouldn't have been able to identify them even if there had been time. We could barely move them because the skin, it fell off; like on cooked fish. If we found survivors we took them to the hospital. It was still standing, by some miracle, and some of the doctors were still alive. We brought blankets and food there, as much as we could spare."

Shiro remembered those pictures, too. He had had nightmares for weeks after that class. He had dreamt of people with no skin, people with no faces, people with radiation damage where the skin thickened and hardened and distorted their limbs. Many nights he had crawled down next to his mom in her futon after waking from such a dream. Whatever Satoshi dreamt, Shiro didn't want to know; the creased, stern face said enough.

"When you see things like what I saw in Hiroshima…" he murmured, quietly. "It made me wonder if the dead weren't the lucky ones. Those who survived – many of them were barely recognisable as human. Still, I went to the hospital as often as I could and looked closely at each one of them. I asked the nurses if there was anyone there by the name Fujimoto Hideo. The odds were slim, of course, but I had to. I hadn't heard from Nii-san in a month. After the bomb radio communication was down. It took days for the engineers to get a radio in there. And then the Emperor declared the war was over. My heart." Satoshi tapped a clenched fist to his chest. "My heart broke that day. We had fought like dogs to keep the trash out of Japan: for nothing. All the men that gave their lives in battle, all the thousands of corpses we burnt: for nothing." This time there was a tremor in his voice; the sound of someone wronged who still hasn't forgiven. It was a feeling Shiro could relate to, even if he was many years too young to have felt the full effects of the war. "And your father…"

The tremors were too much; Satoshi's voice was threatening to fail him, and on the desk his fingers clenched around each other. They sat silent for a while, in unspoken agreement to let him compose himself to continue. Some things require time and effort to speak of; Shiro could relate to that, too.

"I was notified a week later where your father was. He had surrendered." Satoshi's voice was more than calm – it was dead. As dead and cold as the brother he had buried years before he jumped in front of a train. "Long before Hiroshima was destroyed, he laid down his rifle while our comrades died fighting with bamboo spears."

And for the briefest of moments… their two stories did converge, in the dust-heavy air of that cramped study. One story of a boy whose father betrayed his wife and son; one story of a man whose brother betrayed his trust and his country; and when these two stories came together, so did Shiro and his uncle. Quietly. Through shared betrayal and shared resent. Shiro wondered if he should say something, do something, but in the end… he probably didn't need to.

"I did not want to talk to your father again – I hope you can understand", Satoshi resumed. "I wouldn't have, if Okaa-san hadn't insisted there should be no bad blood between brothers: even if he had dishonoured his country and his family, our family had become too small to be made even smaller." Satoshi made a gesture at Shiro – or so he thought, before he realised that he had been thinking about the old photograph out in the corridor. "Father – your grandfather – was stationed in Manchuoko when the Soviets captured it. He was sent to the labour camps in Siberia, along with thousands of other Japanese prisoners of war. We never saw him again."

It was on Shiro's tongue to mumble "damn" as the full picture bloomed out before him, but he didn't. He just watched it grow as Satoshi's voice filled in the gaps in his family history.

"It was a hard time for Okaa-san. I wanted to do what I could for her, so I went to talk with Nii-san." Oh there were many things Satoshi didn't say, many feelings that were kept strictly out of sight; Shiro knew all the signs to look for. "Hideo-nii wouldn't acknowledge what he had done. He wouldn't apologise for it, wouldn't even speak of it. First he sent me away, then he refused to see me altogether." Satoshi drew a breath, as if collecting himself for the next sentence. "The last thing I said to him was that if his shame was that great it wasn't too late for him to die honourably." Satoshi nodded his head slightly, adopting a tone that was softened into an apology: "That was before you were born. I wouldn't have said such harsh words if Nii-san had had a child to provide for."  
 _  
Damn_. It made so much sense now. Shiro vividly remembered the family dinners from his childhood – the forced congeniality, the infected silence – and it all made sense in one bright flash of understanding.

Tatemae. That was the explanation his mom had given him, one time, when he in childish naïveté had asked her why she never said anything about dad's other woman. She was unhappy, Shiro knew that, but she never let it show. That was tatemae: to show what was expected, not what one truly felt. Stay silent and lie. Avoid conflict and maintain harmony, maintain a good façade, even if you were breaking apart inside.

Shiro hated tatemae. Hated what it did to people. Hated how the silence it enforced strangled people to death. And it wasn't just the mistress that had been quietly ignored around the dinner table. Of course his dad had never talked about the war, or about Satoshi; of course granny Aiko had never brought the topic up. It was shameful. It was a conflict. It threatened to crack their frail façade of harmony and therefore it must be avoided at all costs. That was what tatemae was for.

" _Stupid piece of…_ " There was nothing shameful in not having the mettle for being a soldier. There was nothing shameful in not having the guts to put your life on the line, or kill – hell, that was the most human thing of all! Just look at Ryuuji!

What was shameful was to shirk away from what you had done without taking responsibility for it. To make a mess and leave it for someone else to clean up. To run away, like the cowardly rat Hideo had been; run off to some mistress and probably fucking _know_ he'd get away with it, because his family was a good family that would cover up all his unseemly secrets to preserve their beloved goddamn façade.

It hadn't taken long for the connections to form in Shiro's mind, but it felt long. It felt like all the years from 1945 to 1968 replayed in split seconds. 1968, the year when Fujimoto Hideo had shirked away from his responsibilities for the last time.

"Took him a while to realise it was good advice." It was a cruel thing to say of one's father; Shiro was well aware of that. It was a cruel thing to say of anybody, but in the pit of his stomach he felt like Hideo deserved it for all the pain he had caused the people around him. "I don't blame you. For saying that to him. He needed someone to straighten him out – just never…" Shiro had to pause and exhale the stinging irony of what he had been about to say: that Hideo just never wanted to listen to those who tried to make him see reason. Just like Shiro hadn't listened to all the voices that had told him Samael was not a friend. "He just never had the spine to take responsibility."

"No." Satoshi nodded in soft agreement. The single word was followed by one of those silences where you don't know if you're supposed to say something more, or what to say. Despite their shared experiences and opinions of Hideo they were still strangers to each other, and for strangers to speak of sensitive things was… not easy. "My only regret is that I didn't try harder", Satoshi said softly, as if he were leaving a confession. "Nanako-san's death came as a shock to us. I kept thinking that if I had been more persistent with my brother, if I had only been there and confronted him when he started seeing that other woman, then things would never have reached the point where she took her life." Satoshi heaved a deep breath and exhaled it through his nose, as if dispelling restless thoughts spawned by unpleasant memories. "No, my brother lacked every ounce of responsibility."

…it may have been a strange response to the situation, but in the chair across the desk, Shiro smiled. He didn't smile because he found something funny, but because he understood. And Satoshi understood him. When someone has gone through the same things you have, and formed the same opinion… That creates bonds. Shiro wouldn't deny there was an odd tinge of humour to it, as well. Although Hideo had pushed them apart and made them strangers, it was now Hideo that became the bridge between them.

"I want to apologise to you, Shiro-san." The solemnness of Satoshi's words caught him off guard. "No one should have to go through what you've had to go through. I should have been there for you. From now on I will." It was a vow that left no room for doubt, not when Satoshi said it like that: it was a vow made on honour and blood and name. "We're family."

His uncle's words struck a deep, jarring chord in Shiro. Yes, they were family, but Satoshi had never acted like it. No one should have to go through being abandoned and alone, he was damn right about that – and where had he been, the nine long years that Shiro had been an orphan incarcerated in a governmental institution? Shiro had wondered that _many_ times. He had lain awake _many_ nights – wondering why nobody wanted him, wondering why nobody came to visit him – and slowly grown the bitter conclusion that if they didn't want him then he didn't want them. He didn't need them. He could manage on his own. He didn't need to rely on anyone.

But he had still wanted an answer. Not an apology: an answer. And now he could get it. All he had to do was open his mouth and pose Satoshi the questions he had carried for so many years; _stab_ him with those questions, and with all the rage and hurt that had made him the youth delinquent he had been.

"We are", he affirmed, with a smile that wasn't entirely fake but not entirely genuine. "I've been thinking a lot about this, actually. I wasn't sure how to approach you, so I'm glad you sent that invitation card. I'm glad you told me this."

…so why didn't he ask? Why didn't the words come out, when he had always wanted to confront his uncle with them?

* * *

There are three fundamental desires that motivate the human heart; and while Knowledge may be the most significant, one should never forget that Greed has levelled empires ( _it's not only for material things_ ) and that Lust has been the guillotine for a hundred thousand men and women ( _humans desire more than the intimacy of the flesh_ ).

Shiro wanted to know the whys and hows of Satoshi's decisions as much as his dad's… but that wasn't the only thing he wanted.

* * *

Coming out of the study Shiro felt like he had, in fact, taken one step closer to adulthood. Turning twenty in itself didn't change anything, aside giving him the legal rights and responsibilities of an adult Japanese citizen. Learning the things he had learnt from Satoshi, however, and making decisions like the ones he had made in that room; that made him _feel_ like an adult Japanese citizen.

"We're very happy that you came." Satoshi closed the door to the study with a smooth click. "Dinner should be ready soon. Why don't we take a seat at the table?"

"Anatta… Ah, welcome, Shiro-san."

Shiro's first view of aunt Noriko was that of shining black hair, carefully coiffed in a fashionable style. When she rose from the bow, the image was accompanied by a rounded face that was just as carefully – although discreetly – painted. And the way she kept her hands folded in front of her, the way she carried herself in her yukata, the delicate gentleness of her voice… Aunt Noriko was a Lady, capital L. Shiro sent a silent prayer that she would be like Kohu-sensei, and harbour some puzzling, grandmotherly affection for him; that really was his only chance to ever be liked by his aunt.

"Anatta, Chiharu…" She turned to her husband again as soon as she had greeted him. "She is in her old room."

Chiharu. Must be the youngest cousin. Good thing he found out her name before he had to ask about it.

"I will speak with her", Satoshi said, answering his wife's unspoken request. "Is dinner ready…?"

"Soon", she replied, casting her eyes down as she nodded. "A few things have yet to boil. Meanwhile, would you like to take seat at the table, Shiro-san?"

"Actually… If it's not too much trouble for you, I can help Akane-chan finish things up in the kitchen."

It wasn't the reply she had expected, evidently, but she did a good job of not letting it show. Shiro helpfully motioned for her to turn and look behind her: the apartment was big but still had a standard layout, which meant that the corridor opened up to a large dining space with a small kitchen niche immediately to the right. Akane, the cousin closest to Shiro's own age, had slipped into view from that kitchen in order to snatch up an escaped stalk of warabi from the floor. She must have heard what he had said, because she had frozen on the spot with her eyes locked on him.

Upon closer inspection, all three of them had their eyes locked on him.

"I know my way around a kitchen: I have to, since I live alone." Shiro shrugged to make light of the request in case it wasn't well received. "It would make me feel more at home." It was half the truth, at least. The other half was that doing something practical would make him less nervous of aunt Noriko. If he was just sitting around her he would worry about a hundred things like posture and whether or not he spoke correctly.

"…if Shiro-san would like to help he may of course help."

The kitchen smelled in a way that assaulted Shiro's mind with memories. It had that special smell of cooking, cleaning agents and traces of nature gas that amassed because the kitchen was a small niche, not like the big dorm kitchens at the Academy. The dorm kitchens were a Western inspired style, with all utensils fitted into drawers; this kitchen couldn't fit in that many drawers and used all space available to fasten hooks and hang tools. It made it look more cluttered, but it was an organised, homely clutter that made the kitchen more than just a place to cook.

It wasn't what Shiro had expected, though. Well, it had all the cupboards and machines you expect a kitchen to have, with a two-burner gas stove in the corner, a sink in the middle, and a rice cooker sitting atop the sauce pan cabinet. Every object had its designated place, from the pans and utensils hanging above the sink to the hooks for towels, oven gloves and aprons on the side of the cabinet. It was a kitchen where anything disorderly became glaringly apparent, which was the case with the apron tossed in the corner, the wooden cutting board on the floor, and the stalks of warabi and asparagus that were scattered all over the place.

The one crouched down and picking them up at fervent speed had to be Akane. She was one year younger than he was, if Shiro remembered correctly. She wore glasses that swallowed much of her face and made her look older, but it had to be her.

"Here. You won't be able to hold them all in your hand."

The woman who offered her little sister a ceramic bowl to gather the vegetables in could _not_ be Akane. Shiro did some quick maths and concluded that Saki was eight years older than he was while Tomoe was five years older. Right. So whoever this was it was perfectly normal for her to be pregnant. That did help ease the shock a little. Shiro had been mentally preparing himself to meet four cousins, not four cousins plus half a… whatever children of one's cousins were called.

"Pleased to meet you again, Shiro-san." The plump little woman smiled and made a small, small bow, as if she was afraid of tipping over. "I don't know if you remember me, but I'm Tomoe."

"I do remember, a little. Congratulations."

Tomoe beamed, the way he had always heard that expecting mothers could beam. She had the same round face as aunt Noriko, although not as flat and not in need of any make-up to smooth out wrinkles.

"Thank you – and thank you for offering to help. I'm a little out of commission at the moment, I'm afraid."

"It wasn't me", Akane made sure to say before he could assume that it was her fault half the dinner was on the floor. "Chiharu can be very immature."

"If you nag her", Tomoe replied casually; then, her tone changed immediately: "Could you hand me that, Shiro-san? I'll wash it off so we can chop the rest."

"Sure." Shiro picked up the cutting board and handed it to her. Next he bent to pick up the apron, which also allowed him to catch the glare Akane shot her sister. It was a look that reminded Shiro that while he had a girlfriend, he was eons away from speaking Girl. The absentminded comment from Tomoe had been a veiled stab, clearly, but Akane's quiet response had far more nuances than plain hostility. Whatever it was, Tomoe appeared unaffected, fully occupied smoothing her hand in circles over the cutting board she was washing under the tap.

"I don't see why you take her side when you know I'm right."

"Take sides, imouto…? I just state facts."

"Uh, so…" Change of topic, change of topic; Shiro may not speak Girl, but he could tell when conflict was brewing. He left the apron hanging next to the towels and crouched down next to Akane to… look at the bowl she was dropping stray vegetables in. He hadn't meant to, but he couldn't avoid it. The bowl was weirdly familiar. His own family had had the same set, hadn't they…? Shiro shook the side track out of his head and began picking up vegetables. "You must have graduated this spring?"

He assumed so, at least. True Cross Academy was the only Japanese school that followed the Western system; all the rest began their school year in April and ended in March.

"Mh, I did. I've applied to five different schools – vocational schools – in and around True Cross, so we'll see where I end up. I wouldn't mind moving to my own apartment – or share one with a flatmate – if it turns out to be far off, but… We'll see." She pushed her glasses further up on her nose, then glanced around for more vegetables while also taking the opportunity to shoot Shiro a curious glance. "Those strings for your glasses look really nice. Where did you buy them?"

"These? A friend made them." For lack of better word. "What are you going to study if you get in?"

"Hairdresser", the response came immediately. "I always liked doing mother's hair – well, anyone's hair. I did it on dolls first and then on my sisters. Tomoe-nee asked me to arrange hers for her wedding two years ago, and when we graduated – my high school class – I did all my friends' hair. Hairdresser just felt like a natural choice." As if marking the end of her speech, she grasped the filled bowl and stood.

The only time Shiro had heard anyone speak the way Akane did was when Matsuri-sensei had invited him to join the audience for an Upper Middle Class Doctor's essay disputation. The Doctor – a Korean exorcist with an unfortunate underbite – had delivered her thesis, method and conclusion with the clattering efficiency of a printing press, and had been about as pleasant to listen to.

Shiro quietly decided that Akane didn't need to know that.

"Noriko-san's hair was the first thing I noticed, actually", he admitted and stood. "You've done a great job with that."

"A-ah, it's nothing, but… Thank you." Akane bowed, acting suitably demure although Shiro could tell she was pleased.

And without further ado, she opened the cupboard beneath the sink and emptied the bowl in the trash. Just like that. Tomoe didn't seem to mind either, so perhaps it wasn't such a strange thing to throw vegetables that had touched the floor. Perhaps it was only poor people that felt a twinge inside when food was wasted (a good rinse with water would have done the job).

"Speaking of that, Shiro-san." Shiro jolted back to the present. "That's a distinct-looking hairstyle you've got. I like it." Akane took over the cutting board from Tomoe, who returned to stirring the pot on the stove. "You look very mature."

"Old, you mean", he smiled.

"Oh no, I didn't mean it like that. Just that you look more mature."

…maybe his cousins needed a little more time before they could start pulling jokes.

"You do look older", Tomoe jumped in, smiling. She didn't only have her mother's looks; she was stirring the pot of miso soup as elegantly as if she had been holding a calligraphy brush. "Like a perfect skin care model: sixty years old and skin like a teenager. Akane, will you check how much more we have of the asparagus? We have to make do with what's left, but it should be fine."

"We have… six stalks of asparagus and six of warabi left", Akane observed, rummaging through the textile bag they had used for shopping. "It won't be enough." She pushed her glasses up and threw a glance at the wall clock. It showed 17:55. "If I rush down maybe the food market hasn't closed entirely yet."

"Don't bother. There will be less vegetables, that's all. We have a bottle of junsai in the pantry, we'll manage."

"No, I'll be there in three minutes: I can make it." Akane had already started on her mission, discarded the apron and was washing her hands hastily.

"Akane, _no_. Dinner will work out fine. At this time there won't be any good vegetables left anyway."

"I can still check", she persisted.

"You would only slow us down and everybody is already hungry."

From Shiro's point of view, Tomoe was the one that made most sense. Yet, Akane ignored her and hurriedly wiped her hands off. He was about to say that he was fine with a bit less vegetables, when Tomoe spoke again – in a different tone this time.

"Besides, there is plenty of dessert if we're still hungry. What type of dessert do you prefer, Shiro-san?"

"Tomoe-" Akane had stopped dead in her preparations for leaving and shot her sister a warning glare.

"What? It's not like he won't find out later anyway."

"That's _later_. What if we got it wrong?" she hissed, as if whispering, although Shiro really didn't get why since he could hear her perfectly anyway.

He may not understand Girl, but manipulation he had studied closely. Shiro knew what Tomoe was trying to accomplish, and donned a confused look to help her out with it. In all honesty he _was_ pretty hungry.

"Got what wrong? Dessert?"

"We weren't sure, you see", Tomoe confided, smiling behind her hand and completely ignoring Akane's distressed looks. "So I proposed that each of us should pick one flavour we thought you'd like. Akane's just afraid of being wrong."

"I'm afraid we _all_ are wrong", she corrected testily and shot her sister a disapproving glare (that was ignored – again).

Even if two of his cousins looked about to fly at each other's throats, a warm feeling spread in Shiro's chest. They had gone to such extents for his birthday?

"Alright, but first tell me who picked what", he demanded with a grin, careful not to let his eyes dart to the wall clock and give the game away. It was at times like these that he felt the drawbacks of his deal with Samael most tangibly: they needed only a few minutes of stalling to thwart Akane's intentions of running to the food market, but Shiro couldn't gauge that time at all.

"I picked vanilla, Saki-nee picked sakura mochi…" Tomoe scrunched her eyebrows together. If she wasn't serious about forgetting she was a very good actress. "What did Chiharu take…?"

"She took azuki beans, I took strawberry", Akane finished.

"Not bad. Right answer is azuki beans."

"See, Akane? We have everything we need – without you wasting time at the food market." Tomoe nodded at the wall clock, which now read 17:58.

Akane _really_ looked like she wanted to say something about her sister's unfair tactics, and preferably something nasty. It was an addictive look: as a seasoned prankster and tease, Shiro could tell right away – and this kind of scenario had probably played out many times while all the sisters still lived under the same roof.

"A pleasure to work with you", he smirked at Tomoe, who was rapidly becoming his favourite cousin. She laughed at his boldness, reflexively placing a hand under her belly to support it as she did. Yeah, he could get along with her. Akane was stiff and Noriko was dangerously proper, but Tomoe he had a good feeling about.

"Pardon me a moment, please. I just need to wash Sasuke-chan's bottle."

Speak of the devil: aunt Noriko came padding into the kitchen with an emptied baby bottle in hand.

"Sasuke-kun is… Saki-san's kid?" Shiro asked as he stepped aside to let her use the tap.

"Yes – eight months old. He's such a sweetheart." Noriko turned her head and smiled softly at him. "Why don't you let us finish the last bit here and say hello to the others in the dining room? Aiko-san has been looking forward so much to seeing you. Take a while to relax and get reacquainted before we all sit down to eat, hm?"

"I think I'll do that, yeah – yes." Shiro cursed quietly. Aunt Noriko had that _formal_ kind of aura that he never felt comfortable around. "And, uh, how's Chiharu-chan? Is everything alright?"

Noriko stood quiet for a while, flushing the baby bottle with water twice before answering him.

"Sometimes teenagers have troubled minds. She will grow out of it, I'm sure."

"It's just a rebellious phase", Akane confirmed while chopping asparagus. There was a condescending tone in how she said it, however; as if rebellious teens were failed human beings that should be quickly set right for their own good.

"I think it's healthy for kids to have that phase", he responded, turning on the tap to wash his hands after Noriko was done with the bottle. "It's part of growing up. You don't know yourself properly until you've run into a few hardships and made a few stupid decisions."

That made Akane shut up. Tomoe, on the other hand, threw him a glance of covert intelligence, as if she could tell right away that those were words he spoke from experience. Then her glance swept over her mother and sister – watchful, calculating – and Shiro realised she was the kind that kept a close eye on things.

"Wise words", Noriko agreed. "But even wise words have their time."

Tomoe's glance shifted back to him to dowse for a reaction; that was the only reason it occurred to Shiro what his aunt had implied. It had sounded like he was defending – supporting – Chiharu's rebelliousness, and a proper lady like aunt Noriko might not appreciate that.

Goddammit he had never been good with subtleties.

"I didn't mean to sound like I was encouraging her to be disobedient – I just don't think you should worry too much about this phase of hers. She'll come around eventually."

Was that too straightforward? Or what was the meaning of that glance his aunt gave him? Why did it have to be so hard just to _talk_? But then Noriko smiled (and covered it), so it was probably okay.

"You're a considerate young man. That's a good quality."

…Shiro had no idea what he had done that made him come off as considerate, but when paid a compliment you should express gratitude (especially if the one paying the compliment was someone like aunt Noriko).

"Thank you, aunt. Um, I think I will say hi to grandmother. And Saki-san. You just… Yeah I'll leave the kitchen to you."

* * *

The dining room lay just across from the kitchen niche: a spacious place, eight jo of tatami mats with a dark lacquered table in the middle. A second table – tea table, from the looks of it – had been pushed up next to the regular one to allow for extra guests, and at this table sat two women. Granny Aiko was too busy to notice him at first: she was cooing over the toddler that held her gnarled old finger in a firm grip. Said toddler was standing up on the mats with its mother, Saki, holding supporting hands under its armpits. This didn't last long before the balancing act became too difficult and the baby plopped down on its butt. And there it sat, looking around wide-eyed as if it had no idea what just happened. The failure to remain standing caused an eruption of nonsensical, high-pitched twaddling – not from the baby, but from Aiko and Saki, who seemed overjoyed that the kid couldn't stand. It didn't take more than a second before the baby joined in with its own happy, high-pitched gargles, for no reason whatsoever except that everyone else was doing it.

Shiro blinked, trying to comprehend what he was seeing. Because… he had never seen something like that. Not that he could remember. And he could have sworn the world shifted beneath him then, because suddenly he saw how wrong it all was. An old grandmother ( _his_ grandmother) casually chatting with her grandchild and great grandchild ( _his_ cousin and cousin-child): that was something he _should_ be used to, but he wasn't. He was used to living nightmares with glowing eyes and snarling maws, and that was something _nobody_ should be used to. For that one split eternity of a moment, it was like he could see both worlds at once. One world where Satoshi and Noriko had taken him in when he was orphaned, where he was sitting there as one of them, Saki as his older sister and Aiko as his grandmother, and where those tables and cups and bowls were etched with childhood laughs and memories; one world where no one had taken him in, where violence and theft had raised him until he decided to get a proper education for himself, only to become a rare toy in a demon's collection and an assassin in the shadow politics of exorcism.

The feeling wasn't entirely unlike that time in Deep Keep when Tanzi's infiltrator shot him.

" _Life's not fair, you know that_ ", he reminded himself, blinking to clear away the visions of the world that could have been. " _You just gotta make the best of it._ " Because sometimes life does give you second chances, and when it does it's up to you to make the future better than the past. "Obaa-san, Saki-san." He bowed one time for each of them, then stopped to wonder if he should bow to the baby or not. It would have felt kinda… stupid, to do that.

"Ah, Shiro-san! Happy birthday!" Saki took one hand from her baby and waved him over. "Come closer, Baa-san wants to look at you. Baa-san, it's Shiro – your grandson Shiro, he's here now. Sasuke, honey, let go of Baa-chan's finger; she wants to say hi to uncle Shiro."

He had never, even in his most far-fetched dreams, imagined that he would be anyone's _uncle Shiro_ ; he could clearly picture Kasumi cracking up at that new nickname. He could picture other things too, as he padded towards granny Aiko over the rustling mats. She reminded him of the old nukekubi mother (grandmother?) he had beheaded, and that wasn't a pleasant association. Once he had thought that, however, he realised that he probably didn't evoke all too pleasant memories in Aiko either. He resembled a certain someone, too.

"Oh, you look so much like your father." She said it with a sigh, her watery eyes too far away in memories for the smile to reach them. "Come closer, my eyes aren't- Yes, thank you. I must see what a handsome young man you have become."

Shiro folded himself down on his knees to sit next to Aiko. She was so _tiny_ – made of bird bones and sunken in until she was so light she looked like she might float on water. Her face was pale and crinkled, like clay in dry season. Her hair was thinning, and had become white and wispy like the silky fibres of a corncob. Still she had done her best to arrange it neatly, or maybe Akane had. There were teeth missing both here and there when she smiled wider, but it was the sweetest old granny smile he could imagine; it stretched the wrinkles around her mouth and eyes so that her face looked like one big smile.

"How are you, Shiro-kun?"

"I'm fine. It's a lot to do in school, but I like the job so it's okay. How are you, Baa-san?"

"Oh fine, just fine. Satoshi tells me you are an exorcist? An old friend of mine, Houtarou-san, had help from an exorcist once. He had goblins living in his garden shed, they said. Then they got rid of them for him. Have you done that, too?"

Shiro couldn't help but smile; it was the simplest form of exorcist pest control, and she sounded completely intrigued.

"Yes, I have. You see, goblins are earth demons, so they like dark and damp places…" Shiro told her about easy missions that wouldn't make her fear for his safety, as that was one thing he knew from Kohu-sensei that elderly people were experts at. Aiko seemed to suck in every word, occasionally contributing with an "ooh" or an "aah" when he explained in general terms how exorcism worked.

"You're a good boy, Shiro-kun, you are." She grasped his hands with gentle, wizened fingers and held them as if they were something tenderly precious. "I missed you so much. I kept thinking about you. You were so little, and we were all…"

Aiko looked like she was about to cry, and Shiro had no idea what to do.

"It's alright." He returned the gesture and grasped her hands, firmly. "I've been thinking about you too." Well, of sorts. "You don't- There's no need to cry, Baa-san."

Aiko looked like she was staring down at her knees, all hunched over and quivering.

"I-I'm not… _crying_. I'm just ha- _happy_ ", she said, raising her face again. She was crying – loads. But even when she did, she smiled, and she didn't let go of his hands. Not for a second.

"That's good, Baa-san. Letting it out is good. Baa- Shiro-san, here: give these to Baa-san, please."

Saki had produced a small pack of tissue paper and reached across the table to give it to Shiro – who didn't have any hands free to take it with. He looked down at their hands – hers were so small and gnarled in his – and squeezed her fingers for a second; then he untangled his hand and reached over the table, careful not to sweep down any bowls or cups. Yeah, that definitely was the same brand of set that his parents had had. It was a standard model, blue karakusa floral pattern on white background, but one he would recognise anywhere.

"Here." He put the tissues in her hand. Aiko just nodded and pulled one out, crying softly but still too much to speak easily.

It took a while for Aiko to completely stop crying. It wasn't a comfortable while for Shiro, who felt a fundamental… not dislike, but discomfort, when people were so openly emotional. Saki, however, seemed perfectly okay in the situation. Maybe it had something to do with raising kids and managing their mood swings, but she remained calm and warm and reassured the both of them that all was fine, that it wouldn't be a proper reunion if there wasn't any tears, and that Shiro sort of looked a bit like Aiko with that hair. He had to explain the hair again, of course, which led on to Saki retelling an anecdote about her husband (a convenience store assistant), who was also going grey even though he was only thirty.

"And then it turned out that the customer that had been debating pricing with him for fifteen minutes had believed he was the store owner's father", she finished a while later.

"Oh dear, oh dear…!" By that time, Aiko was chuckling heartily at the story, and Shiro had eased out of his previous discomfort. Saki was chuckling, too, and showed prominent dimples in her round cheeks when she did.

"Well, that hasn't happened to me _yet_ , but new students have mistaken me for a teacher a few times." Holy shit, the day somebody would mistake him for someone's _father_ … "Is it because I tend to scowl and get more wrinkles?"

"Oh you don't have any wrinkles, Shiro-kun", Aiko chortled. "You're smooth as a mochi."

"Oh, yeah – I heard you picked sakura mochi as my favourite dessert, Saki-san?"

"They told you? I thought we were going to keep it a surprise?"

"I think that was the plan, but we had to distract Akane-chan for a few minutes."

Saki's surprised face transformed into a smile, and she gave off a light titter that would have led Shiro to think she was the _youngest_ sister.

"Well, departing from the plan is a good way of doing that."

"I noticed. I can't take the credit for it, though. Tomoe-san started it, I just followed her lead. But sakura mochi? What made you guess that?" Because honestly, sakura mochi were pretty girly. (Samael loved them.)

"Oh, I just thought it would fit", she said brightly. "Sakura mochi is a spring dessert, you're born in spring. Well, early summer, I suppose, but I've always thought of May as spring. It can still be a bit chilly at this time of year."

" _That… was simpleminded…_ " Shiro thought. Saki really didn't come off as twenty-eight years old, but by the same token she seemed very friendly and kind. "I guess I should've been born in winter, then. Hotpot food is my favourite – oden especially."

"Really? I love winter food too!"

And from there, they talked mostly about food and cooking, and domestic life in general. Saki had worked only briefly at a convenience store before she got married. Since then she had been a full-time mother and housewife, and she loved every minute of it even if Shiro would have been bored out of his mind. Oh well. To each their own. If you were able to wipe milk vomit from your baby's chin with a loving smile, as Saki did when it turned out Sasuke hadn't burped enough, then you were most definitely well suited to being a mother.

"They're so precious, the little ones." The way Aiko looked at Sasuke you'd think that baby vomit was the cutest thing in the world. "They grow up so fast, you barely have time to blink. And you never stop loving them." Aiko's old voice hovered on the edge of memories, Shiro could tell, but she wouldn't go there. Instead she reached for the present, for her great grandchild, and smiled when the baby in turn reached out to grab her finger. "You look like a little mochi too, don't you?" She poked Sasuke's soft belly gently – and tickled. The baby shrieked with laughter. Shiro winced, and suppressed a _strong_ urge to stick his fingers in his ears. Were all babies that loud? That _shrill_? Couldn't you just… make it quiet?

"I'm having a hard time working out the relationship ties here. What exactly am I to Sasuke-kun?" he asked. "'Cause I'm not really his uncle."

His hopes were that, if they were talking, then hopefully Saki would make an effort to keep Sasuke calm. It did work: Aiko stopped tickling him and Saki bounced him lightly on her lap, hushing him softly.

"I haven't thought about it, to be honest. Baa-san, do you know?" When she noticed Aiko didn't catch the question, she raised her voice: "Shiro-san wonders what he is to Sasuke, if he isn't his uncle."

"Mmm you and Shiro-kun are first cousins", she clarified, seemingly to herself, before she turned to Shiro. "That makes you and Sasuke-chan first cousins, once removed. And of course you and Kaede-chan are also first cousins, once removed."

"Kaede-chan?" Shiro directed his question to Saki, who answered him happily.

"Sasuke has a big sister. Yes you do, right? A sweet big sister that loves to help mommy look after you?" She smiled down at her boy, who was too busy trying to stuff his little fist into his mouth to listen. Chuckling warmly, Saki returned to addressing Shiro again. "Kaede turns six next month. She talks and talks and talks – you know how children that age are."

Shiro vaguely remembered some kid at the orphanage – Yosuke or whatever his name had been – that had talked and talked and talked. He had no idea how old Yosuke had been.

"Uh, sure."

Four cousins plus two and a half once-removed first cousins. Damn. His family was suddenly very big.

"And when you find a wife and have children, your children will be each other's second cousins." Aiko probably meant it in the best way possible and not at all as some form of expectation, but Shiro hoped his feelings didn't show on his face. The thought of having children of his own was… God he didn't even want to think about that. Not only did he have zero experience (or patience) with children, but as a Catholic priest…

"That will probably take a while", he said evasively. "I have to work, find a place to live, buy furniture and utensils and all that. I've lived in a dorm the past years, I don't even have a futon for when I graduate and move out. Once I've gotten the basic stuff together I can start thinking about meeting someone, but now is too early." And now he felt like he was babbling just to avoid questions. "Uh, so, where's Kaede-chan?"

"At home with her father. She really wanted to come, but: ear infection", Saki explained, eyebrows pulling together empathically. "She's always been prone to ear infections, poor thing."

"She grows out of it, hopefully. I was often ill when I was little, too", Aiko told them. "For me it was always the… the… These here, in the cheeks…?" She dabbed her fingertips at her cheeks just under her eyes, looking to her grandchildren for help.

"Sinuses." Shiro had touched on them briefly in human gross anatomy when he studied for Matsuri-sensei. "Did you have sinus infections?"

Shiro learnt one very important life lesson then: don't ask elderly people about their illnesses. They have gone through _many_ , and they are happy to go through the whole list and give you a detailed account of each one. Thus they were stuck on the topic until Satoshi returned and Noriko announced that dinner was ready.

And what a dinner. The main course, that Shiro hadn't been part of making, was ayu: sweetwater fish, grilled whole and dusted with salt like on the finest restaurants. He did have a hand in preparing the spring vegetables, but he would never have arranged them as beautifully as Tomoe and Akane had. The food was a feast both for the eye and the tongue, and everyone had soon made themselves comfortable at the table; even Sasuke, who was napping soundly on his own zabuton next to Saki. Conversation flowed back and forth and wove a good-humoured atmosphere around the meal, everyone eager to catch up on recent happenings and share plans for the future. Tomoe's husband held a high position in the Tomy company, and Satoshi was eager to be invited for dinner again to hopefully tie favourable connections for his logistics company. They all wanted to come to Shiro's graduation ceremony, but before that aunt Noriko had a birthday that she didn't want to celebrate because she was getting old, plus there were all the speculations on whether Tomoe's first baby would be a boy or a girl, and what its name should be.

"It's in the shape of the belly. When I carried Kaede I was wide as a truck", Saki explained between mouths of rice. "When I carried Sasuke the belly was all in front of me, not out on the sides at all. I think you're having a girl."

"I don't know how reliable that is", Noriko responded. "When I had you I was wide, as you describe, but when I had your sisters my belly was also much more protruding. Maybe the first one is wide and the rest not?"

"It depends on what you eat", Aiko said knowledgeably, and used tissue paper to dab her mouth after drinking her soup. "If you eat mostly meat it will be a boy, and if you eat vegetables it will be a girl."

Tomoe stopped for a moment to look at the asparagus sprout she was about to put in her mouth. Then she ate it.

"A girl, then. That would be good, in fact. We have already agreed on a name if it's a girl: Mayuri." Tomoe gingerly blew on her tea. "If it's a boy Yasushi-san wants Kintaro, but I would much rather like Kazuki."

"Kazuki is a good name", Saki agreed; then she tittered into her hand, glancing at her sister with laughter in her eyes. "Besides I wouldn't be able to stop thinking of the folk tale Kintaro if you named him that. That would make you the yamauba that raised him."

"Better think twice before you let your children come play with mine then, Nee-san…" she returned with a wicked grin, and they all laughed heartily.

The dinner was _great_ … Except for Chiharu. Chiharu sat on the opposite side of the table from Shiro, two seats down. Her long, straight bangs blocked the view of her eyes, and she didn't look up from her bowl even once. The only indication that she was holding back tears was the small, small quiver in her lips that she vehemently fought down. There was a reddish mark on her cheek, a mark Shiro recognised clearly from all the times he had been disciplined for disobedience at the orphanage.

And tatemae worked its magic. The amiable chatter around the table continued, encapsulating the quiet girl as if suffocating her silence would make all her problems disappear. It was a straitjacket tension and it made Shiro squirm where he sat. He couldn't leave it like that, somebody needed to acknowledge that everything wasn't as jovial as they pretended it was, not for Chiharu. It reminded him too much of what his own family had been like towards the end, where thoughts and feelings were silenced to death. However… Just like before, he didn't say a thing.

Shiro ate slowly, virtually rice grain by rice grain, as he tried to pinpoint what was going on. It wasn't like him to just shut up when something like that bothered him. What happened to his principles? This was exactly the kind of thing he hated the most! Why would he shut up when his family was… when his family was…

It was then very clear to Shiro why he hadn't put Satoshi against the wall in the study, and why he didn't address Chiharu's discomfort now. He wanted a family, subconsciously; and here he had one. All he had to do was to blend in, nice and quiet, and get them to accept him.

" _Really? Am I that fucking cheap? Tch, evidently…_ "

He looked away from Chiharu – or rather, looked away from his own shame. Instead, his eyes landed on granny Aiko. The soup had been for her, as chewing wasn't easy now that she had lost so many teeth. She had lost much more than that over the years; and… while his chopsticks hung still before his mouth, it dawned on Shiro… Maybe, he could understand tatemae after all. Lose enough, and if the price for not losing more is to quietly pretend like nothing, then… maybe you'll find that price worth paying.

It wasn't just the topic of his dad's mistress that had lurked in the silence he had grown to hate: granny Aiko had stayed silent through the pain of knowing her husband was dead and her sons weren't speaking with each other. She had eaten dinner with them and celebrated birthdays with them, and not once (that Shiro knew of) had she approached Hideo about the matter of his brother or mistress. She had let it be, believing that was the price for not losing her son completely.

" _Doesn't matter. It's still all lies._ " He returned to his ayu and peeled himself another piece of savoury meat. " _You can't have a family based on lies._ " That was easy to say when you hadn't been in a family for the better part of a decade; now he had been in one for less than a day, and he was already conforming.

"Oh. Uhm, I won't be able to come to Kaede-chan's birthday." Shiro hadn't been paying attention but he did catch that they were all invited to celebrate her on the 20th of June. "Once I've graduated and gotten my license I'll work abroad, in Italy. I leave on June 17th, but if I can come early and give her a present I could do that."

It was the most pragmatic solution he could think of, but the response to it was not what he had expected. There was no response. Saki, who he had assumed was the one that would be responsible for the celebrations, looked to uncle Satoshi. Next to her, Tomoe also darted glances at her father, but more covert. Noriko shot no telling looks in any direction, but she stopped eating to listen for a potential response.

"What does Kaede-chan wish for on her birthday, Saki?" That was Satoshi's response. And everybody followed suit without even missing a beat.

"A cat, if she could choose, but I don't think she's old enough to have a pet just yet. Picture books are good, and small animal dolls." Saki motioned with her hand what size of doll she meant. "She likes animals a lot."

Shiro didn't understand. Oh he _did_ understand that they were ignoring him, that was blatantly obvious, but why? Had he said something inappropriate without realising it? He was just about to speak up again and ask if he had said something wrong when Satoshi announced that they had a surprise for him. On cue, Noriko, Akane and Chiharu rose from the table.

Shiro didn't understand what it meant until he remembered it was his birthday: of course they would have surprises for him. When the three appeared again, they were singing for him, and all the others around the table chimed in. He appreciated it, he really did, but he would have appreciated it much more if he hadn't just been brushed off in that peculiar way. Chiharu and Noriko carried trays with all the desserts they had bought, and Akane carried two books. Big books, the wrong format to be anything but atlases or lexicons or-

Photo albums.

"Happy birthday, Shiro-san!" They finished the song in union.

Shiro knew they were photo albums before he even accepted them from Akane. He remembered them – hazy images of those mottled, deep red backs sitting side by side in the bookshelf in his childhood home, far left on the second shelf.

"It's been a long time since you saw these", Satoshi said fondly. "Open them."

It felt odd to open the album, as if Shiro were somehow far away and sharply present at the same time. The first monochrome picture was of his mom and dad in their living room, younger than he had ever seen them: happier that he had ever seen them. Between themselves they held a bundle of white blankets with a tiny (ugly) face and a wisp of black hair sticking out. Underneath the photograph was hiragana, so tiny and faded it was barely legible: _1957-05-12, Shiro comes home_ Next page, another photograph: it was Christmas, the lit tree in the background glinted weirdly in the camera lens, and his mom was wearing her favourite dress, laughing into her hand as the baby beside her happily massacred the slice of cake before him. _1957-12-24, Shiro's first Christmas (first cake)_ Shiro remembered that picture well: it had been almost a tradition to mention it on his birthday every year, when either his mom or his dad recalled his first encounter with cakes. The album was full of such things, silly snapshots that made unexpected memories spring to life – his first bike, his shichi-go-san, vacation by the sea, throwing baseball in the park with his dad, his first school uniform…

"There's your fifth birthday. You were pulling on Saki's hair the whole time and wanted to ride on her shoulders." Noriko pointed at a monchrome photo where Shiro and his three cousins (Chiharu was newborn and stayed with her mother) were sitting around the table in their best clothes. Only Saki was looking into the camera: the others were busy gulping down ice cream, each from their own karakusa patterned bowl.

"And here we are at the zoo, all of you together." They had been photographed in front of the entrance sign to the children's playground: Shiro's mom with a firm grip on his hand so he wouldn't run off somewhere, Saki holding hands with Tomoe and Akane, and Noriko pushing a baby cart with little Chiharu sticking up as nothing but a baby cap above a pair of curious eyes. "You ended up running around so much at that playground that we had to carry you back because you all fell asleep when we ate. I remember Hideo-san complained about back pains for weeks after."

The more photos Shiro saw, the more did he remember. Those bowls they had eaten ice cream from on his birthday, they hadn't just been the same brand that Satoshi's family owned – it _was_ the same set. The drawers in the genkan were from his home, too; it had stood in the corner of his room, and the sticker on the side was one he had put there when he was little.

" _On the side facing the wall_ ", he remembered, seeing his old room before him as vividly as if it had still existed, " _so mom wouldn't find it and make me peel it off._ "

His family's belongings had been sold after his dad's death, to pay off the debt he owed the company; auctioned out to highest bidder and scattered to the four winds, except that one stored cardboard box that contained things without- …Things that only an eleven year old could see the value in.

" _God, I remember these things… That was my room. I used to hang the sheets over the desk and pretend it was a secret base. And that toy kitty mom would hide somewhere in the house for me to find. That's me and that neighbour kid playing in the garden. That's- Pff that's the flowers I picked on Mother's Day._ " The ones that had been planted by his mom, in their garden, and that he had pulled up without a second thought. " _God I was stupid as a kid…_ "

Shiro didn't hold himself to be the sentimental type, but as he flipped through page after page he couldn't deny that the memories did awaken feelings. It had become increasingly difficult, over the years, to remember what life had been like before he had been aware of the theatre his parents played. Sometimes it felt like he had always been angry and guarded. But these pictures… That was another Shiro, from another time when things hadn't been so complicated and so false.

Shiro was reminded of Samael's history lesson at Castel Sant'Angelo in Rome: how the adult Mayu and the child Mayu were the same person, yet not. He still couldn't see it – couldn't feel it. That scrawny little boy that gave his mom flowers he had pulled up in her garden was a stranger that had nothing to do with the jaded, cynical exorcist looking at photos in the present.

Still… The cynical exorcist of the present felt like he could benefit from not forgetting the little boy that gave his mom flowers. It was a stupid and ignorant boy, sure, but it was a boy who knew how to open his heart for others, both to give and to receive. If he and that boy truly were the same person, then… if he still had it in him…

"Thank you", he said, closing the photo album and bowing where he sat. "You really couldn't have found a better gift. That was… Yeah I really appreciate it."

Pleased smiles greeted him from around the table. Satoshi cleared his throat and rose.

"We have another gift for you: one that I think you have looked forward to as much as we have. Happy birthday, Shiro."

Satoshi placed a single paper on the photo albums. It looked a bit like the report forms he had been filling in after missions, except it wasn't.

**Application for consent to the adoption of a child**   
**(Children's court act 1963)**   
**(Adoption act 1974)**

Two of the sections (prospective mother, prospective father) were already filled in with the names and birth information of Satoshi and Noriko. The third section of the form was to be filled in by the child agreeing to be… adopted.

Adopted.

Shiro could have sworn his dyslexia was back at full force and jumbled the strokes of the kanji as he stared at them, unable to…  
 _  
Adopted._

It just wasn't… After _all these years_ , this… Somebody wanted him, somebody finally, really… Feelings Shiro had never even known he had surged up and swallowed him from within – warm, deep, tender – and he _knew_ , like he had never known before, how much he had wanted this.

_They didn't want you nine years ago: why would they want you now?_

The question reared up like a viper, sowing the cold seeds of doubt in his ear. There still had been no answer to that question, because he hadn't posed it. But there was an answer. One he hadn't gotten because he didn't want to know; he was _afraid_ to know, and the first surge of emotion faded as doubt grew in its place.

"-will go through it together once you have graduated." Shiro barely registered what Satoshi said, as if his dyslexia had spread to his ears as well. What was this talk about his graduation…? "There is an established protocol to follow for all incoming orders when you archive them. It takes a while to learn, but don't worry: once you get the hang of it it's like riding a bike. The ledgers for book keeping are in the archive lockers. I will guide you through procedure there as well, but only after you have made yourself at home with the practical aspects of the business: looking at numbers is easier when you have the hands-on experience to relate to."

Shiro had a surreal feeling that he was floating – weightless – and that all the words that came out of Satoshi's mouth were floating around with him in a random jumble. The business – Satoshi's logistics business? Book keeping, protocol…? And _he_ was supposed to-? Once he had graduated…?

"But… I'm going to Italy, didn't you hear what I…?"

No, he didn't. Not because he didn't hear: because he didn't care.

"This is where you were born, where you belong: not Italy", Satoshi explained with an understanding smile. "Once you're ready for it I'm leaving the company to you: office, trucks, delivery cars, everything. Getting there takes work, but we will get you through it – together." Satoshi sounded like a proud father, sounded like this was… _Just what the hell_ …? "Do you have a driver's license yet? If not I will book you a course as soon as you know when your graduation ceremony-"

"NO." Shiro startled even himself with how loud his statement was, but he wouldn't get through to his uncle otherwise. "I mean – I can't. I can't take over any company; I'm going to Italy. My visa's approved, my flight is paid, I'm enrolling an education that takes four years to complete: I'm an exorcist, not a-"

"I heard." Satoshi had already made a decision, and that decision would stand: the tone in his voice made that perfectly clear. "I realise that this is all very sudden for you, but nothing changes the fact that your place is here, with your family: I hope you understand that. I will help you cancel the flight, send a letter to the school in Italy-"

"The fuck? I'm not some _dog_ you can order around like-"

Satoshi's fist slammed into the table, and everyone around it flinched reflexively. His gaze was resting directly on Shiro, and it was stern. Authoritative. More than ever, Satoshi's face looked like it was carved from rock.

"You will not speak like that to your elders", he said, and this time his voice matched his looks. "This is not a request, Shiro-san. You have a duty to your family and I need you to understand that this is for-"

"Duty?"

When the sap in a tree freezes from a sudden spell of cold, it can cause the tree to explode. The blast comes out of nowhere, sharp as a gunshot, shattering the living wood in splinters. _Duty_. The word made Shiro's blood freeze: and crack, and shatter the illusion they had so kindly woven around him.

"You have _no_ right to speak to me about duty." Rage squeezed his throat like a fist, sharpened his words with icicles; and it was words that had been waiting _a long time_ to come out. "You left me in that orphanage nine fucking years: where was your duty to family then?"

No answer. A deeply uncomfortable atmosphere settled around the table. Everyone was staring at their bowls and picking at their food, eating just to have an excuse not to speak.

"I apologised." Satoshi's reply was curt, final; a dead end roadblock, as likely to budge as a chunk of granite. "And I'm offering you a place in this family. But you should know that with family comes duty; something your father never-"

"I don't give a shit about your apologies!" Shiro sprang up from where he sat, bumping the table and sending tea sloshing out of cups and spreading over the lacquered surface. The outburst woke Sasuke and set him off wailing like a piglet dragged to slaughter. Fuck that. Fuck _all of that_. "And you never gave a shit about me", he seethed; a blizzard of painfully clear truths and shades of blood throbbing at the edge of his vision. "You never wanted me – you wanted a son. You left me in that orphanage 'cause I was a disobedient little shit that-Don't you _fucking_ interrupt me you old fart!" He stabbed a finger at Satoshi, who had shifted to rise. Part of him was very pleased to see his uncle flinch and freeze. "You're gonna _sit down_ and you're gonna listen till I'm fucking done! You didn't want me 'cause I wasn't _useful_ to you, and now that I am you come crawling with apologies and expect me to nod and obey like a good son and be fucking _grateful_ for it!"

Chaos – all around was chaos, broken expectations coming down like winter hail and social norm crumbling from the impact. Saki fussed and hushed and tried to soothe her baby back to calm; Akane stared at her bowl without eating, frozen and unresponsive without a clue of what to do; granny Aiko's face was shrivelled up in tears, her frail, whimpering old body rocking back and forth with Tomoe and aunt Noriko at her side, trying to comfort her. Chiharu sat wide-eyed at the end of the table, jaw slack with disbelief and the chopsticks in her hand completely forgotten. Tatemae and silence fell apart like shattered glass, a dollhouse world crashing down around them but holy _shit_ did it feel good, deep down where the shadowside of Shiro dwelled a perverse thrill made it feel so _good_ to destroy it all. They needed that, every single fucking one of them; the ones used to enforcing the shackles of tradition and the ones used to quietly accepting the weight of them.  
 _  
Tradition is a convention of the human mind, a set of customs passed on from one generation to another._

"You actually expected me to happily give up everything just like that?!"  
 _  
It exists only so long as the mind sees fit to sustain it. If enough humans were to change their minds, it would fade._

"How about you fucking ask what _I_ want – did that ever cross your mind?!"  
 _  
Tradition doesn't like change, and doesn't like questioning: it aims to preserve itself, and that necessitates preserving its habitat unchanged._

"You're the same egotistical son of a fuck as my-"

"Enough, Shiro!" Satoshi was white in the face when he rose, eyes livid and all muscles in his neck taut with anger. "Look at your grandmother!" His arm swept at the wailing old woman huddled in the arms of her daughter-in-law. "Hasn't she shed enough tears over your father?! Are you going to break her heart completely?!"

"Don't you dare make this about her! This is about _you_ , wanting a fucking _heir_ for your goddamn _company_!"

Oh but it was about granny Aiko. Her beloved sons were fighting all over again, with a much younger actor playing Hideo.

"You _are_ my heir, and I _do_ care about you; you would see that if you only stopped acting like a spoiled brat that only thinks about himself!"

And any pity Shiro might have felt for Aiko evaporated in a flash of blind rage.

"Who the hell are you calling a spoiled brat?!" He was in Satoshi's face before he knew it, a decimetre from his nose, roaring at the top of his lungs. "Who is it that wants everything his way, hah?! Who's the spoiled fuck that thinks he can decide what others should do?!"

" _You_ are the spoiled little shit if you think you can abandon your family just because you're an adult!" Satoshi increased the distance between them again with a warning finger pointed right in Shiro's face. "I'm giving you an opportunity people like you can only dream of: realise that! Yes, you should be grateful! Yes, I expected you to take over the company – it's what sons do! You can still finish your studies overseas, I won't retire in another ten years: just-"

Shiro didn't care. Satoshi's words were a surreal distant buzz and he didn't care, didn't care one fucking bit. He only had one thing to say to that man, and he put on his best sneer to do it:

"Go fuck yourself."

For one split moment, Satoshi's face went blank.

Then, Shiro's head whipped to the side. The sound of the slap rattled around in his skull, and somewhere beyond the shock his cheek was burning from the impact.

Three things happened, in the unnatural silence that followed. The first two were simultaneous: Shiro's ravenous impulse to pay back the slap, _with interest_ ; and the thrumming presence of a demon that egged him on to do so. It would feel so _very_ good to bash Satoshi's face in, wouldn't it? Oh yes, his whole being _crawled_ with the need to hurt him and the demon had all the right arguments. But the Vatican would be notified of the possession. Shiro would be confined and "studied". And his contract with Samael would be breached. Those arguments outweighed every tempting word the demon whispered in his ear, because they _had_ to.

The third thing came later, muted through the haze of shapeless whispers and throbbing rage that lay thick around Shiro's consciousness. It was words, his brain informed him. It was words his uncle spoke, quivering but firm, while Shiro was struggling against himself to save the bastard's life.

"You are your father's son. Hideo-nii only ever thought of himself. Spat on his family and everything we did for him. If you are going to take after him, then you should never have a company _or_ a family."

Then again, feelings are immune to arguments of reason.

The punch he landed in Satoshi's face sent his uncle straight to the floor, instant knock-out. And for Shiro; instant clarity. His brain may be pumped full of adrenaline but his thinking was clear as ever, his mind was focused, and the demon didn't stand the ghost of a chance to get through his mental shields.

"You're right. This family brings nothing but fathers that spit on their family and don't care for their children." And with those words Shiro turned and walked away. However, before disappearing in the hall, he stopped long enough to say one last thing. "Thanks for the food."

* * *

The stairwell filled with echoes as Shiro walked down. Counted breaths. Quietly rehearsed scripture verses in the hopes that his mind would find them interesting enough to stop screaming that his uncle was an asshole (he was) and that he deserved to get hospitalised (the demon's words, the _demon's_ words). It didn't matter. It couldn't. No matter how much it hurt to be betrayed ( _again_ ) he couldn't let it matter.

" _Fuck, the photo albums…_ "

Didn't matter. He wouldn't set foot in that apartment again, ever, and although some part of him remembered the feeling when he had seen those pictures, there were far stronger feelings that…

" _Breathe._ "

Shiro ran his fingers through his hair and drew deep breaths, exhaling the anger and focusing his mind, finding the balance again. A smoke now would have been a fucking life-saver. If he could find a 7-Eleven he would buy a new lighter – two – and as many cigarette cartons as he could fit into his blazer pockets.

He had barely stepped out the door and into the mild evening before he came face to face with Chiharu. It was so unexpected that he halted, mind completely derailed from its former track. When had she slipped out? Way before him, that much he could figure out, but…

Chiharu regained her bearings much quicker, and started bowing and apologising in rapid succession.

"I'm sorry I ran off. I am. I should have stayed, I wanted to take your side but-"

"You know what, it doesn't matter. I should've taken your side way before you- Well, fuck it, I'm out. Thanks, I'm gonna-"

"No!" She grasped his arm when he turned to leave. "Please, just- Just _listen_!"

Of course. Chiharu wanted somebody to listen, naturally – her father never did, her sisters never did. Her mother? Noriko was such a perfect Japanese lady that Shiro couldn't even tell what type of person she was inside.

"Look, I understand, but… I'm in a real fucking shitty mood right now. I'm not good for talking."

"You don't need to talk." Chiharu shook her head, a faint blush spread out over her cheeks. "Promise. I'll make it short, you don't have to say anything, just let me say these things. Please?"

It was a fine summer's eve that settled in around them. It was the kind of night when young couples strolled side by side and talked until dawn yawned at the horizon, the kind of night made for spreading your futon on the roof and sleeping under the stars. It was not the kind of night when you left young girls that pleaded you to stay. What was that thing Midori had said…? Breathe and feed your heart to the world? Shiro couldn't remember her words exactly, but he remembered what she had meant: talk about what troubles you and the burden won't weigh as heavily on your mind. It was the same philosophy Catholic confessionals operated on, and if he could do that – if he could do just this one thing for his cousin, when he hadn't stood up for her before…

"Alright." He scratched his nose, looked away; looked back at Chiharu. "Make it quick."

Victory, her eyes said – shouted. And there wasn't a trace of blush on her face: what he had mistaken for a blush was a Milky Way of freckles draped over her nose and cheeks. Chiharu wasn't a blushing maiden: she was… energetic.

"I just wanted to say thank you", she said, and bowed. "Dad always thinks he can decide everything, and Akane's the same. They're all the same, just in different ways. Sorry, that sounds weird, doesn't it?" she laughed nervously, scratching the back of her head. She wasn't nervous _or_ apologetic, though. She knew what she was talking about, just not how to express it. "Dad never said he wished he'd had a son instead, but you knew he did. He had a room cleared out for you and everything. He was so sure you would- Sorry, sorry, I'll make it quick. I'm sorry dad treated you like that, but I'm glad you did this." Chiharu flashed him a smile, and unlike her mother and sisters she didn't hide it. She smiled, proudly, and bowed. "I'm glad it's not just me. Thank you, Shiro-nii."

"You're welcome. I… should probably say something more, but I can't get my thoughts together right now. So take care. And don't give a damn." He bowed, too, and turned to walk. "Uh, Chiharu-chan?" Shiro stopped and turned, finding his cousin still out on the sidewalk. "Is there any 7-Eleven nearby? I'm out of cigarettes."

* * *

Shiro could have taken his cram school key directly back to the Academy. He could have gone directly to the Sentou station and taken the tram back to the relative safety of the wards that surrounded the school. He pushed those options out of his mind as they presented themselves, and they took their leave respectfully; this evening, Fujimoto Shiro was best left alone.

He didn't know how long it took to walk from Sentou station to True Cross Academy but tonight he would find out. There had been a 7-Eleven two blocks from the food market and he had everything he needed to walk all night if that's what it took – and if his head wasn't clearer by then, he would continue to walk. Past the Academy. Past the farthest reaches of True Cross Town. Men without goal just continue to walk, don't they? Or is that men who don't care where they are headed? Tonight, Shiro didn't care. His feet set the course and his thoughts the pace, and beyond that he didn't care as long as he kept moving. The rhythm of his footfalls became a steady mantra as the half-moon shone clearer and clearer against the darkening sky. Dusk came slowly in May, struggling to overpower the sharp electric lights of the city. It was only when Shiro noticed stars that he saw where his feet had led him.

There were only a few places where you could hope to catch a faint glimpse of stars in True Cross Town: in the parks, and at the graveyards. He had arrived at the New Graveyard, where the gates were closed for the night. A few candles still burnt like eerie will-o'-wisps among the graves.

Shiro huffed, sending a plume of cigarette smoke into the night. He rested his eyes on the gates for a moment, pondering… Hell, why not? The graveyard was as good a place to think as any. He took a few steps back, gauging the height of the gate once more (as tall as a man; the crossbar below the top spikes was just above eye-level for him), and rose up on the balls of his feet to test the flex of his calves. His P.E. teacher, Gokuro-sensei, had made sure to test his new strength over the past year, carefully but thoroughly getting him acquainted with his full potential and how to use it without hurting himself.

Shiro sprinted forward, tuning his tendons to the muscle strain and synchronizing his body for the kick off; the air whooshed around his ears when he jumped, clanged when his left hand gripped the iron crossbar between the spikes and let his body sail over the gate in a wide arc. He landed on both feet, continued smoothly into a roll, and rose. The gate rattled on its hinges behind him. Drawing another breath on his cigarette, Shiro began picking his way among the stones that shone ghostly white in the dark.

Crouching down before his parents' grave, Shiro placed his cigarette upright in the gravel as a barbaric form of incense. He lit a new one for himself, drawing deep breaths as he watched the grave, pondering. It had been one hell of a day. It had been one hell of a fucking day, and it would take him many more days before he was finally done with it.

Deep down he wanted a family: yes. But not that kind of family. Not a family that wanted him because he was useful. A useful tool.

Demons and humans, sometimes you didn't know which were worse or if they were both the same.

Shiro slid his thumb over the new lighter in his pocket, back and forth, getting acquainted with the new shapes and textures. Satoshi could go to hell for all he cared, both him and his spineless fuck of a brother. He was done with both of them. No, what still galled him was how _he_ had played along with it. He could have asked Satoshi straight out and he could have spoken up for Chiharu. And he hadn't. He had done _the exact same fucking thing_ his mom had done; sat there quietly, not wanting to see the truth, not wanting to break the illusion of family. It just continued to happen, over and over. Repeating his parents' mistakes no matter how much he fucking hated it.

As he looked back on it all, a bitter smile curled his lips.

" _Really. The one who keeps betraying me… is me._ " Fujimotos really were good at messing things up, it was like a bloody family curse. " _Can't trust any of us_ ", he huffed, feeling a bout of cynical humour coming on. " _We're just a bunch of selfish assholes that betray everyone who loves us._ " Shiro dragged a deep breath on his smoke, letting his eyes linger on the glow of the cigarette he had placed at the grave. It had almost burnt out. " _Maybe he's not entirely wrong. Maybe I'm not fit to have a family._ "

It wasn't something he believed because Satoshi had said it. It had been a thought he turned over in his mind from time to time before putting it down, leaving to do something else, and then chancing upon it again later, when little reminders set his mind on that track once more.

An exorcist… It was the perfect job, as far as Shiro was concerned. But exorcists didn't make good family members. To choose that career was just as irresponsible for a father as his own dad's actions. Moriyama Mayu was a widow because her husband had been an exorcist. Shizuku and Kasumi had lost their father and sisters because they had been exorcists. Every year, on Obon, the Japanese headquarters of the Order held a lantern ceremony down by the river, in memory of all the men and women that had fallen in the line of duty. More than anything, however, it was a ceremony for the ones they left behind.

If you chose a career as exorcist… Then maybe you shouldn't have a family.

As he stood pondering, something entered the graveyard; something that arrived quietly, not stirring a single breeze, yet Shiro's attention darted to it as if drawn in by a magnetic field. He never knew _how_ he felt it – five senses weren't enough to describe that feeling – but he did.

"So, how did your birthday dinner go?" The chipper, nasal voice of Samael's dog form drifted over to him from behind, accompanied by the soft crunch of paws padding over gravel.

Great. Just fucking great. Shiro drew a long, deep breath on his smoke, and let it out just as slowly and steadily. He made no move to turn around.

"You want me to think you weren't spying on it?"

"I was busy giving an interview. Mainichi Shinbun wanted exclusive rights to the story of Japan's first school for Western education, what with the Academy's centennial next year and all."

The statement was airy, untroubled, and didn't convince Shiro one bit.

"You control time and space." Samael had been there, he was sure of it. There was no way the bastard would set him up for something like that and then miss the grand finale of the show.

"Ah – dinner didn't go so well, then."

Shiro would not answer that. He stared straight ahead, past the Fujimoto grave, past the rows and rows of square pillars vanishing in the dusk.

"But you learnt something from it, didn't you?" prodded the little dog, as snowy white as the grave markers around them.

Shiro kept the silence, tight-lipped, as if holding in breath underwater. Time stretched, and the silence grew; rose like fortress walls around him, a pathetic attempt at keeping out an enemy that couldn't be repelled.

"I can't read minds, you know that."

No, the silence couldn't shut him out, but it did frustrate him – had to be grateful for the small blessings. It was a blessing, truly: Shiro could taste (smell? feel? "sense"?) the acidic surge of pressure his lack of cooperation induced in the demon.

Of course, Samael would not let it show that his petty resistance annoyed him. He merely exhaled through his nose in something that could have been a sigh and could have been a huff.

"Holding grudges makes you dumb: makes you see what you want instead of what is." The dog sat down at his side, peering up at him and waiting for a retort. When none came, it spoke again, voice brightened by a good idea: "How about a riddle? 'I have no mouth, yet my voice is in your ear. I have no bars, yet I am a prison. The more you try to run from me, the stronger does my grip on you become. What am I?'"

"Annoying."

"Doubt", the dog answered, and sought his eyes for any trace that the weight of the word had been felt.

He found it, Shiro was sure. Because he did feel the weight of it. The meaning of it. The point that Samael had been trying to teach him.

"This path was always there if you chose to take it", the dog continued softly. "But you never did, because it led back to a past that you sought desperately to leave behind. Still, it didn't lead to the same past. It led to an alternative to the family you knew: perhaps better, perhaps worse – you didn't know. Thus you hesitated at every crossroads, prisoner of your doubt, never quite sure what lay down that path and never daring to try it. Now you have. Now you know." The gravel rustled softly as the dog got up on its paws. "Now you're free."

And with that, Shiro could no longer remain passive. The implication that Samael had done something good, done something Shiro should be _grateful_ for…

"Humans don't always _want_ to know – ever thought about that?" His words came out sharp, smashed to splinters by bitterness and honesty. "It's not certainty that keeps us going: it's hope. Hope that there's something better. Without doubt there's no room for that."

Dangerous words. Dangerous because they were true, heartfelt: clear and pure, like well-water salvaged from depths where pollution hasn't reached. And here he was, dredging those pure, honest, _painful_ feelings up from their shelter and baring them before one whose very name meant Poison.

" _Thinking never went well in Shiro-kun._ " Shiro wasn't thinking, not clearly; he never did around Samael, and he was perfectly aware of that. Being moved by emotion is a dangerous thing that births dangerous actions and words.

And sometimes – just sometimes –, that might be what's needed. Samael rarely took him seriously, rarely – _never_ – treated him with respect, as an equal. But now, be it what Shiro had said or how he had said it, Samael was actually _looking_ at him, _listening_ to him; giving him his full, undivided attention.

The sheer force of it made Shiro's skin prickle with goose bumps.

"Those are not the words I heard from you a year ago." It wasn't a question, and yet… Samael sounded like he was waiting for an answer? "Back then you believed that hope for something with no possibility of becoming real wasn't any good hope to hold on to."

It seemed like much more than a year ago that they went on that bar crawl, but Samael was famed for good memory. Shiro could muster up a vague recollection of having said something like that, one drunken night in a dim bar in the Creek's End part of town; that a hope that could never become real would only hurt when it was taken away. It was a point Samael had proven pretty fucking well: that didn't mean Shiro would acknowledge he was right.

"It isn't. But it's better than nothing." At least better than being "free" by Samael's definition of freedom. Freedom… What is that, even? To be free of… doubt? Hope? Free of fear, free of worry, free of things that hurt to lose, free of things that hurt to want, free of…

Everything.

Everyone.

"Or is that the kind of freedom you think I should have?" Shiro spoke with steel in his voice, once the outlines of what freedom – _absolute_ freedom – meant became clearer. "Cut me off from everything until the only thing that holds me up is your puppet strings? More convenient with no one else around to meddle with your plans? Really don't like sharing your toys, do you."

Shiro wanted to bite his tongue off at every word. Being _honest_ was the last thing he wanted but fuck it, everything inside _hurt_ and it pressed against his ribcage to come out no matter if that was strategic or smart. He could have used his head and not gone to his uncle's family in the first place; _that_ would have been fucking _strategic and smart_. He had enough regrets for a lifetime, circulating in his veins like snakebite toxins – but not enough to miss that, in the dusk around him, Samael's presence soured again. It was a poor way to express the sensation, but Shiro wasn't sure how else to express it. The bitter sour of lime fruit peels, a clenching feel, and a spark that sputtered but refused to light: that was what it felt like.

"Indeed, grudges work wonders for your intelligence." The disdain in Samael's words was only matched by his sarcasm. "Happy birthday."

*poof*

* * *

Faust Mansion could be compared to the miracle that had transpired in Japanese economy and industry following the world war. It was a compound of well-greased routine with each member of the staff specialised enough to perform his or her task flawlessly, while at the same time flexible enough to respond to any unexpected situation that might arise. Such situations did arise, and often enough to be called a routine within the routine.

As in any economy or industry, a workforce requires coordination. This task fell on the butler of the household. Belial had, as the longest serving member of the staff, been thoroughly seasoned and could respond to any demand duty placed on him. Admittedly, it wasn't always painless. And it wasn't always he had the luxury of sleeping, or keeping his host body fed, but the disadvantages of the job were outweighed by advantages such as a very favourable position in demon hierarchy (or put simply: not getting eaten by someone more powerful).

Sometimes, however, his job did make him nervous. Because his master was _unpredictable_. His highness could easily change his mind three times in a split second (what were seconds to one such as he anyway?), render all previous orders and arrangements nil, and (when too excited about his new idea) doing so without informing anyone: such as seemed to be the case this particular evening. There had been orders – very clear and comprehensible orders – and Belial had made sure they were followed down to the syllable. Along the way, however, some parameter had _changed_ , and the arrangements were no longer adequate; as the butler of the household, it fell on Belial to find out what parameter it was and adapt – _post-haste_.

Belial's knock on the bed chamber door was answered with an "enter" from his highness.

Very little anime aired on Tuesday nights, and what played on the TV screen instead appeared to be a series of British origin, judging by the accent of the actors; and of horribly low budget, judging by the main character's dishevelled suit and horrible scarf (in every way horrible: horribly long, horribly patterned, horribly coloured).

Belial made his entrance and bowed.

"Your highness-"

"He isn't coming." His highness lounged comfortably among his cushions and fuzzy blankets, a bowl of crisps cradled in the crook of his arm, and seemed intent not to move a single inch for the rest of the night.

"Understood." Belial fell silent, awaiting further orders. His highness might still want to make use of the food and the beverage: the question was when, and until this "when" some of it might need to be put in the refrigerator. "Would your highness like-"

"Put the cake away. I'll have it for breakfast tomorrow."

"Certainly, your highness."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"Demons are pleasure-seekers that can only destroy." (Even when they don't mean to…?)_  
>  \- Sir Mephisto Pheles
> 
>  **Jo** is a measuring unit based on the size of one tatami mat. So a room eight jo large is a room that takes eight mats to cover. (It's pretty cool that Japanese architects adapt the size of rooms to fit the measurements of tatami mats and not the other way around.)
> 
>  **The Academy's centennial** is something I just made up to keep Mephisto busy while Shiro is in Rome. (Otherwise he will get bored, and I do not want to put up with a bored Mephisto.)
> 
>  **Military history** is an elusive bitch unless you can read and write in the country's native language, which in this case I can't. =w=' Camp Komakado trained ground soldiers and Tokorozawa had an air service academy, which isn't really the same as a training camp but screw it, it will have to do.  
>  Military training in Japan at the time of WWII… Oh that was a gruesome business. Brainwashing and systematic abuse, indoctrination to fight to the death and take no prisoners. The Imperial Japanese Army was one of the cruellest in the world: to fight against and to fight in. You probably know this already, but the extremism and pride in Japan made the war situation quite different from what you would imagine it to be. Soldiers were encouraged to do "banzai charges" straight at the enemy and die: these were completely unnecessary deaths, but they were honourable. Civilians were encouraged to kill their families and themselves in case the Americans invaded, because the government spread tales of the cruelty of the Americans and said it was better to die than to be captured.
> 
>  **Ame-koh** because Satoshi doesn't hold Americans in very high regard. Does anybody know what the kanji for this looks like and what the slur actually means…? Because I'm curious. =0u0'=
> 
>  **Doki no Sakura** sounds like just about any other military song, but what gives me goose bumps is how it explicitly is a song about the glory of dying for your country, not the glory of victory. When I researched for this chapter I came upon this story that made me bawl like a kid. It was an account from the personnel at a ryokan where kamikaze pilots (in Japan the attacks were known as tokkou tai) stayed while they waited for orders to take off. One pilot who was going to fly the next day told the daughter of the ryokan owner not to worry, not to cry; he promised to be back in the evening again, as a firefly (there were plenty of fireflies around the ryokan). The next evening, the pilots were gathered in the ryokan again to eat, and one lone firefly found its way in. The little girl had kept watch all day, and piped up joyously that "there he is! there he is!", and when the other pilots saw the firefly they began to sing Doki no Sakura, to welcome him back. (I'm awful at telling short and consise stories, I know.)
> 
>  **Adoption in Japan**  
>  **Bloodlines. Honour. Family.** These are very important things in Japanese culture, so it's not surprising that adoption is a sensitive topic. In fact, adoption is a social taboo, and Japanese couples that do succeed in adopting a child might even move to a new location where nobody knows them so they can introduce the child as their biological one.
> 
>  **Throw-away children.** It's difficult to adopt in Japan because 90% of the children in Japanese orphanages aren't orphans, but so-called "throw-away children". For one reason or another, their parents put them in an orphanage, and never take them back. Some don't even visit their children. But they don't put the child up for adoption: again, because that is a social taboo. (When Shiro tells Samael "You know what people do with kids they don't want" in the chapter Closet skeletons, matchbox ladybugs, this is what he means.) You can, technically, be left at an orphanage facility at one year of age and grow up there until age 18 without meeting your parents more than maybe once a year. You're still expected to adhere to tradition and provide for your old parents when they can't work anymore, however, 'cause they haven't given up the "legal rights" to you.
> 
> But there are adoptions… Ironically, for the same reasons that adoptions are so rare: bloodlines, honour and family. If you don't have a son to take over the family business for you, you can adopt an adult male orphan (preferably a hard-working, prodigious one) and make him your heir. This is the most prevalent type of adoption in Japan.
> 
> With Shiro's parents dead I don't know what happens to his legal papers. (I have spared myself the agony of going through Japanese legislation: in case of emergency I will invoke artistic liberty.) This chapter is just me guessing. ^_^'


	81. Faith

_Ah, yes: faith. If ever Eden saw corruption wrought beneath its canopies, it was not the fruit man ate in disobedience but the faith they placed in that Serpent and the words he spake. Humanity and faith are one, and ever to be so, yet if that will be her boon or bane depends uniquely on wherein she places her belief._

_Truth? Now that is something else entirely. Truth would poison faith past any recognition, and, should the two be wed by force – as mankind is so fond of doing – their toxic union births the manacles of slavery, of enmity, of persecution; a plague was born that day, when humanity took faith for truth and made it her belief the two were one. That epidemic rages ever on, its mutated multitude of hydra heads still hissing at each other's promises of truth; it is a placebo mockery of Faith, and its name is Religion._

_Oh? Too harsh, you say? Well, then: place your faith wherever you deem fit. Placebo, too, can serve as trellis for belief to grow and climb; just bear in mind, my dears, that the wickers faith grows onto also will grow into it, grow into you, that you may craft the mind a prison of your choosing. Indeed, if faith will be your boon or bane… That choice rests with you alone._

_It is quite fascinating, that something so insubstantial can hold such power: a wish infused with trust, a hope sustained by unconditional conviction; a torch alit to keep the dark at bay when it comes crawling… Hopes and wishes: that is all it is, your faith. Those are the measly cobweb strings you trust to keep the world from crumbling._

_Absurd?_

_Or profound?_

_…Really, now? You would ask a demon for the mysteries of faith?_

_How very insightful of you. Not wise, perhaps, but insightful. I know many things forgotten and concealed: but would I tell you? And if I did, how much should you trust my words?_

_Ah, but faith has naught to do with answers. Of faith, I will only tell you this: don't underestimate the power of the human mind._

* * *

" _I guess a miracle was too much to wish for._ "

Shiro didn't know what time it was. Early. Maybe even a quarter to early. The sun rose in the small hours this time of year, and the pale light was slowly climbing the horizon. He had been sitting on the dorm roof long enough to see the sunset, then the moon, and now… dawn. A beautiful dawn, too: postcard dawn, splashing the façades of the Academy with soft white. It climbed steadily higher, a giant clock counting down the remaining minutes until disaster. _  
_  
" _If this is a trial I don't know what the fuck I'm supposed to prove, just so you know. I don't see the point in any of this. Gimme a sign, O Great Lord. Light my cigarette on fire and let it talk to me._ "

Nothing happened, of course. Shiro lit his cigarette himself, momentarily tempted to think that the Great Lord had given up on humanity long ago: that He was on coffee break, or that maybe He kept favourites and only helped people in the Middle East. That whatever angel in charge of the East Asian territory was an incompetent slacker. That there was static on the line that prevented prayers from being heard.

Pray long enough and the prayers will evaporate into giddy jokes that taste like watered-down rice porridge.

A small pile of cigarette butts had built up next to him over the night: each one a prayer, each one turning to dust, unanswered. When he left he would scoop it up and throw it in the garbage. Not really a symbolic gesture – that would be an after-construction. Shiro just didn't want the janitors to deal with more shit than they already did.

" _You know what? I'm starting to think I was right. About you. That you're a demon, just like the gods in Ancient Greece and Shinto. How about that, hm? Gonna defend yourself and prove me wrong?_ "

No answer. When Shiro spared a moment to reflect on his thoughts he wasn't sure if he even wanted one, or if he just wanted someone to direct his anger at. He had already been angry at himself, for being an idiot who trusted the wrong people. It would be nice to be angry at someone else for a change, someone who – allegedly – had more influence over his life than he did.

" _…What a joke. If I'd had any influence over my life I wouldn't be praying imaginary gods for miracles._ "

If he'd had any influence over his life, today would never have happened. It had kept him up through the small hours, asking for advice and miracles. What he was going to do today was making his heart twist inside out, and among all the words he had tried and discarded during the night none had been able to twist it right and make it settle back into his ribcage. As the sun scaled the Academy walls, and the cigarette glow was creeping into the filter, Shiro had no clue how to say what he didn't want to say. He stared at the glow without seeing it, stared at the hand holding the cigarette and wondered what he had hands for, when they were tied behind his back.

Shiro had never needed a god: he had taken care of himself, ever since his mom had died and his dad had deteriorated into a self-loathing wreck. His own two hands, that was all he needed to get by. Now, he didn't know what he needed.

" _A miracle would've been nice. But I guess my situation isn't bad enough to qualify. And if you're pulling a Job on me to test my faith, there's nothing to test so you can quit it already."_

Shiro put out the last cigarette with the others and began scraping them together. The heap had looked fairly big before, but now it shrank into a humble pile that looked miserably small in his cupped hands. Maybe that was what it looked like to god, from high above: a problem that seemed impossibly big for a human was just a little speck when seen from a distance. An insignificant little speck not worth wasting miracles on.

"Maybe you should've left your godly powers at home when you came down to preach salvation. Then you'd know what it's really like to be human", he snarled at his cupped hands.

In a fit of blazing defiance – and, more importantly, sleep deprivation – Shiro turned to face the self-important dawn. Squinting up at the fading stars, he strode closer to it, all the way to the edge of the flat rooftop, where he planted his feet firmly on the concrete.

"A word of advice, god – from a little speck that just might grow into a big, unpleasant pile of shit if you don't pay attention." His voice was hoarse and raspy from the cool night – and the many cigarettes – but carried well in the clear air. "I'm about to hurt someone badly, and she doesn't deserve that. You might not think that's much of a problem to you, but I want you to take a look at who's holding the rope I'm tied with, and I want you to consider what I might be doing in the future if you don't help me cut that rope. It's not gonna be pretty things, okay? Are we clear?"

The ash and cigarette butts bombarded his face in the sudden blast of wind as they were carried off into the air in a grey flurry. Shiro hunched down and threw his arms up before his face on instinct, bracing his feet wide apart – for fighting or for bolting, whichever turned out to be the better option. He cracked one eye open to get a look at the assailant and was greeted by the outline of a winged creature that was halfway into a backward loop, seemingly after making a steep rise along the dormitory wall. The rainbow colours and the streaming peacock tail were things he instantly recognised as those of a shahrokh, and this particular shahrokh – with its fondness of air acrobatics – was Tonbo, Kasumi's familiar.

* * *

Shiro tried to ruffle the ash out of his hair as he trotted down the stairs of the dorm building. He briefly entertained the idea of going back to his dorm room to wash it out – along with the ash that probably stuck to his face – but decided not to. Saburota had the night shift in Deep Keep and would be returning any minute.

Shiro's relation to Saburota was awkward, at best. A rosary of tense greetings and quietly synchronised schedules to ensure they saw as little of each other as possible. Shiro didn't know when it had become like that, only why it suddenly bothered him that it was. Yesterday had shown him how similar his situation and Saburota's was. Different – completely different – but also vaguely similar. Both sons with expectations they didn't want, both plagued by truth: one by seeking it, the other by knowing it. As Shiro cleared the last flight of stairs, he felt like there were touching points there that could have built something, if only things had played out differently.

Then there was that other similar difference they shared. Neither of them knew when to keep his mouth shut: one because he was obsessed with the truth and the other because he was an idiot.

"Morning", Shiro greeted. The front door of the building had barely creaked shut behind him before he stood face to face with Saburota. He seemed worn these days, but kept a professional look about it: just strode ahead, not stopping to think – or care – what he was striding towards or what he was striding past. Or why his roommate had grey dust all over himself.

"Good morning." The words were spoken in passing, an acknowledgement of form and decorum. They could have remained that. The conversation could have been over then, if not for Shiro being tired and unable to shut up.

"You decide your own future." Hearing Saburota stop, Shiro halted his steps as well.

"Excuse me?"

Shiro didn't turn around. He already regretted this. What was he trying to do? Play hero? Ease his guilty conscience? Shiro didn't like thinking of when he had toyed with Saburota because of his imprint, but if there was anything good he had learnt from that it was that Saburota had things pent up inside that triggered a demon's instincts.

Protect humans against demons: that's what exorcists did, right?

"Nothing." Shiro fixed his eyes on the dew damp walkway before him, speaking to the air. "Just saying you shouldn't let others decide those things for you."

"What things? Are you drunk again?" There was an edge to Saburota's voice now: a wary, accusing edge that sought to his cut words down in mid-air. It was a voice that didn't want to listen.

"Wish I was", he said flatly, hoping to ease Saburota out of the defensive mode if he let it show that he was troubled, too. "I know all about having to do things I don't wanna do. I know about expectations and demands. I'm off to do stuff today that I definitely don't want to but I don't have a choice." Shiro turned halfway around, meeting the eyes of the exorcist still watching him with a guarded expression. He almost smiled, then. That light-headed smile that comes not because something is funny but because everything is so absurd it ought to fall apart like broken porcelain. "Sucks, doesn't it? I wake up every day hating it. Then I start hating myself because I can't do anything about it. Then I hate people around me 'cause they can't see it and I can't tell them. And the show goes on and on and on."

Saburota didn't follow for five cent. He didn't care to. You could see it in his eyes, in his posture: to him, Shiro had just proven that he was indeed drunk.

"I don't know what you think you're doing, Fujimoto." You could hear it in his voice, too. Saburota's voice was cool. Not something as hostile as cold: only cool, measured, and utterly contemptuous in an utterly sophisticated way. "I don't think you know either. Do yourself a favour and don't do _anything_ until you have slept and sorted yourself out."

Saburota was in the mood for mocking him when he tried to be helpful? Fine. Shiro could pay him back in his own coin.

"How sweet of you to care about me", he replied with sugary sarcasm. "Who cares about you? Your dad? Your brothers? Or they don't give a damn what you do as long as that Order badge is in place?"

No. _No._ He was being an idiot now. He hadn't slept enough and his common sense was leaking like a sieve – leaking like the tugging, teasing presence of vulnerability that reached him from Saburota. Shiro grimaced as if struck by a sudden migraine.

"What did you-"

"I didn't mean to say that", Shiro interrupted, waving his hand as if the persuasive tug was a bad smell he could waft away. "It was out of line. Sorry. Just forget it."

As if Saburota would forget that. A regular citizen might let it slide if someone made an assault like that and then heel turned and apologised: an exorcist, on the other hand, would note it down as a sign of potential possession. That notebook was out and open in Saburota's mind, and his eyes were scanning Shiro viciously for more signs to register.

"I'm not possessed", Shiro clarified pre-emptively. "I'm just tired. Makes my manners worse than they already are."

Shiro would have left it at that – a poor excuse for amends yet all he had energy for – but neither he nor Saburota knew when to shut up.

"I don't think it's yo-your manners." Saburota's voice stabbed him in the back when he turned around to leave. Stuttered and stabbed and _tugged_. "It's you. _You_ are b-b-bad, through and through, and you keep pretending you're n-not. Like a dem-m-mon playing at being human. That's why they're after you, i-i-isn't it? You're like them."

Shiro had fairly thick skin where insults were concerned. He had been called a good many things for being the short-tempered kid he had been and by now it passed like water off a duck. Then there were the times when the insults were true: and struck true, burying right into the spots that were the most sore.

Shiro snorted sharply through his nose, letting out some of the throbbing pressure and redirecting it as smoothly as he could. Tch. If there was a god he was a sadistic little brat, to make Saburota get that last sentence out ungarbled by stutters.

"At least we agree on something", he returned, tucked his hands into his trouser pockets, and let the wheeling shahrokh lead the way out of the Academy campus.

* * *

The morning rush hour was something that had always held a certain fascination to Shiro. The way thousands upon thousands of people marshalled in unison and moved; for that short hour you could see the bare bones that held society upright. That massive, synchronised mobilisation, unity and hard work, seemed to embody the Japanese spirit. Standing in the throng of people waiting for the crossing lights to switch, Shiro added another note to his observations: it was a bystander's fascination. He could appreciate rush hour from afar, but he certainly didn't like being smack in the middle of it. Not on a day like this.

Meeting in the morning had been Kasumi's suggestion, as the weather forecast had promised an unusually warm May month starting today. The air had already taken on a humid quality that reminded him of July when it was like walking around in miso broth in daytime. At the thought of soup, Shiro's stomach voiced a reproachful gurgle. He hadn't eaten since yesterday's supper.

He checked his watch: convenience stores should be opening now. The thought of freshly steamed nikuman made his stomach crinkle up like a raisin, as if to demonstrate how empty it was and what a good idea nikuman was.

That is, it was a good idea until he had entered the store, selected the nikuman he wanted from the cooker by the counter, and taken out his wallet to pay for them. First there was an ominous rustle from the aisle with dried foods. Then an ominous pitter patting of things falling off a shelf. Then there was the sound of something tearing and something crunching.

The shop assistant – a young, bespectacled guy who most likely worked there to pay for college – wore the exact same stiff "what-was-that?" expression Shiro wore. The boy threw a concerned glance in the direction of the sound, then reminded himself of shop policy and that he had a customer waiting. Clearing the payment as fast as he could, he flashed a hurried smile and excused himself to go check on the noise. Shiro tailed him, paper bag of nikuman in hand, and cursed under his breath.

He didn't know what the shop assistant saw: niboshi packages spilled all over the aisle floor, probably. What Shiro saw was a very happy Tonbo, chewing down dried fish from the package she had managed to tear open. The dumb mutt had orders to lead him to Kasumi, no doubt, and lead him to Kasumi she would; if he strayed off to somewhere he shouldn't she would follow and herd him back – unless she found something on the way that was more interesting than a stray idiot. Bloody demons.

"No no, I will clean this up, don't worry, sir!"

Shiro pretended not to notice the shop assistant's flailing assurances and sat down on his haunches to rake up the niboshi packages. If it was one thing he had learnt from watching Sen's goblin it was that you don't get between a demon and its food, and the last thing he needed today was to emergency treat a shocked civilian for mashou.

In turn, Tonbo kept snacking and pretended not to notice that she had her claw on one of the packages. Shiro gave it a sharp tug, hoping she was smart enough to get the hint. Which she didn't. He glared at the furry face level with his own, _willing_ her to move. Tonbo stared back, uncomprehending, snout open and pink tongue dangling between her fangs. Once eye contact was made she licked her nose and closed her mouth, glancing down at the bag of nikuman he was holding and then back to his face. Hoping he was smart enough to get the hint.

" _Oh you little… demon._ " Tonbo knew _exactly_ what she was doing, the clever little bastard: wouldn't leave without finishing her snack unless she was compensated. " _Fine._ " He nodded, and the shahrokh lifted her sinewy leg to let him take the last package.

They took a short breakfast break outside the shop to let the shahrokh enjoy the fruits of her blackmailing. He should have been pissed, and he had been, but… Watching the shahrokh take bites out of the nikuman, like some huge dog-headed pigeon, Shiro smiled. Familiars reflected their Tamers alright.

* * *

Kasumi had chosen her usual spot to wait for him: the red wooden bridge that spanned the waters by the night market. It was a different thing to be there in the morning. The city had woken but the pond hadn't. It lay still and unbroken like a shard fallen out of the pale sky, waiting for the first ducks to stir its surface. The sun had not yet reached it, creeping between the buildings as if hesitant to dip its rays in the water where night cool still slept. All the same, the water lilies were slowly opening their petals, trying to coax the light closer with their fragrant smell. Kasumi watched them from the bridge, absentmindedly fanning herself with a painted fan – not only for the humid warmth but also for the milling swarms of mosquitoes that lingered in the shade.

Shiro regretted that he had eaten anything. His stomach knotted itself up as if trying to hide and consequently pushed the food back up his oesophagus. He would rather face a hundred pissed krakens than do this.

Tonbo heaved up a shrill, happy sound that was in between a bird's chirping and a dog's barking as she flew ahead to perch on the bridge handrail. Kasumi's face cracked into a beaming grin when she spotted him. Wandering staff and backpack forgotten on the bridge, she flew down the boards and caught him in a bear hug (from a very small bear).

"Happy birthday, Fuji!" She looked up from his chest, catching his eyes with an almost smug look. "Good thing ya finally caught up. I was feelin' like a dirty old lady, dating a minor."

"Well, no need to worry about that now."

It was one of the shittiest comeback lines he had ever- It didn't even qualify as a comeback line. But there wouldn't be many witty exchanges today. Shiro knew that. He didn't have the energy for it and it wouldn't make it any easier to do what he had to do.

"Damn, ya look like ya've been partyin' all night." Kasumi attempted to bring some sort of life to his face by pinching his cheeks and pulling. "Is that a hangover or ya just tired?"

"Really fucking tired", he replied truthfully.

"Better give ya this before ya fall asleep then." Kasumi whistled for Tonbo, who came swooping over them and dropped off a big, square package wrapped in white gift paper printed with little red hearts and katakana saying _Happy Valentine's_. "Come on, open it!"

He could guess approximately what it was: something useful and something hand crafted. Kasumi always came up with the best gifts.

He didn't want this.

When the paper came undone, Shiro could only admit that she had outdone herself. In the package lay a Doctor utility belt, an exact copy of the Order's own but more… _more_. Every part of it was crafted with thought and care: hoops for antidote phials, clasps for tweezers, scissors and syringe containers, pockets for medical dressings and alcohol – all masterfully cut from fragrant, tanned leather. There were hours and hours of discreet designs engraved on it, but not until his eyes touched the belts did he see what it was: Wisteria garlands.

Deep inside his chest, something broke.

"A good doctor needs good equipment. I've seen those things the Order's Doctors carry around: faux leather." Kasumi made an insulted click with her tongue. "Can't beat the real thing in durability – 's long as ya take proper care of it, that is. Ya know what neatsfoot oil is? Get some o' that, rub it in twice a year, an' this belt will outlive both me an' you."

It would. It sure would. He didn't deserve it, didn't deserve her – but more than anything, Kasumi didn't deserve to be dumped. She was a kind, strong, amazing woman and he felt like something small and slimy and spineless at the bottom of a murky bog. She didn't deserve a shit like him.

" _She doesn't deserve all the shit she will get dragged into if I_ don't _break up_ ", he reminded himself. It was true. It just didn't make him feel any better about this. "You're amazing. Thank you so much." He tried to force the guilt out of his voice and tried to make his huff sound like a chuckle and not like… like he was choking something down. "It's gonna be a while before I get a chance to use it though. I _will_ get the Doctor Meister, I just decided to postpone it."

"Oh? So ye're only going fer Dragoon now?"

"Dragoon and Aria. I was doing so much scripture reading anyway during my conversion so I figured I might as well."

An Aria Meister was mandatory for anyone who wanted to pursue the title of exorcist priest, which Shiro would. Celibacy was also mandatory for anyone who wanted to pursue that title. Actually _wanting_ to pursue that title was, ironically, not mandatory for obtaining it.

"Aria?" Her whole face went slack with disbelief, so much that you couldn't even see it was partially numb. "After all yer spectacular whinin' 'bout scripture recital? What am I gonna laugh at now?"

This time, the comeback line came. It leapt out from its ambush, frantic to wedge into the conversation and derail it before he could say anything else. Delay. Postpone. Say what he wanted to say rather than what he should say.

"I still have _lots_ of stuff to whine about in scripture recital. You know Goggles-sensei?"

"Yer resident Iron Lady an' Pheles Fangirl."

"The one. She's always made us hammer in verses until we got every single _word_ right, but you know what she did a few weeks ago…?"

They slowly relocated to the bridge to lean their elbows on the railing and watch the water lilies. As they did, Shiro proceeded to tell her how Goggles-sensei, who had carved it into the backs of their eyelids that the power of verses lay in the words, one day had casually mentioned that the really good Arias didn't recite the verses word for word. The really good Arias _abbreviated_ , yet still got the same effect as a full verse: because apparently, the power was in the mind, not in the words.

"I was this close to throwing the book at her." The space Shiro showed between his thumb and index finger was not big. A mosquito hovered over the back of his hand for a moment, contemplating his nutrient content, before deciding that Kasumi looked much tastier. "Everything you thought you knew, just – poof, out the window. I used to think that the words would work like a magic spell or something and then this abbreviation thing fucks it all up. Now I don't know what I believe. Still, the verses themselves gotta have _some_ effect – otherwise we could just shout random stuff like 'Honey Flash!' and with enough conviction it would exorcise the demon."

"Honey Flash?" Kasumi's face was blank as the pond surface. Shiro's didn't look much better, as he realised just what random line his sleepy brain had thrown him. Then the ripples spread across her face, drawing her incredulous grin wider and wider as the reference sank in. "That is what I think it is, innit? It's from that perv anime 'bout a superhero girl who gets 'er clothes torn off when she transforms! What's this dark secret ya've been hiding from me, Fuji~?"

Anime marathons in Faust Mansion – what a laughable dark secret! Shiro would have laughed, too, if other dark secrets hadn't been clotting up his throat, whispering that they had to come out or Kasumi would be hurt in worse ways than he ever could.

"I'm kidding! Ya know that, right?" Kasumi's elbow called him back to reality. He had spaced out completely, and she had hit just the spot between ribcage and hipbone where there was nothing to guard his insides. "Don't look so serious!"

"I know, I know. I'm just so damn tired." He could see the worry in her eyes. He was aloof, he knew he was, and so tried to cover it up as best he could. "Wouldn't slip dark secrets like that otherwise."

"Figures. It must take a lotta energy ta read an' memorise all those verses."

Shiro hummed a nonverbal reply. The pond mirror was moving now; three ducks had gone for breakfast not far from the shore, grazing the bottom of it with butts straight up at the sky. Kasumi was watching them, though surely not seeing them. Her calloused fingers absentmindedly stroked the grain of the wooden handrail, gently reading its Braille memoirs. She was thinking; she was beautiful when she was thinking. It brought an ache of longing to him, and Shiro realised that… he was saying goodbye. That this moment, this memory of her tranquil profile in the morning light, was the photo he brought with him to a mission he didn't know if he would return from, like his father and grandfather had done when the war parted them from their loved ones.  
 _  
He didn't want this._

"Well, now that I know yer dark secret I might as well tell ya mine", Kasumi said, managing to sound upbeat even though she had noticed his mood. "I can't read."

Shiro blinked. Whatever dark secret he had expected, it wasn't that.

"At all? But-"

"It's only the kanji", she clarified, pleased to at least have gotten him to act a little more alive and awake. "I can read a few, enough ta guess what it says on signs and such, but I can't read a newspaper. I can't read books." She chuckled as if telling a joke. Still, the way her hands hugged – clenched – her elbows on the railing betrayed that it wasn't really a joking matter. "If ya wonder how I wrote ya letters I can inform ya that I didn't: I asked mom or Shizzy fer help."

"But you can read hiragana?" He remembered last year, when her face had been in bandages: she had only communicated through a writing pad. Back then he had thought she stuck to hiragana because it was quicker.

"Yeah, hiragana works. Mom an' dad taught us all hiragana. When we got ta kanji I just sorta…" She grimaced, making a sloppy gesture like she was tossing something in the pond. "Hiragana made sense ta me: kanji didn't. I lost interest about there and just neva' got around ta learning it. We never carried books along either, so there wasn't much ta practise on." Kasumi chuckled at Tonbo. The familiar had spotted the swimming ducks and watched them with great interest; the ducks had spotted her, too, and paddled away as fast as their webbed feet allowed while throwing abhorred glares back at the monster on the bridge. "Now that I'm a grown woman I wish I'd been smart enough ta put in the effort back then. It's a hassle when ye can't read an' people always assume that ye can 'cause it's somethin' everybody can."

It was one of those times you really saw that Kasumi and Shizuku were branches of the same headstrong tree. If they had to, they could. No matter what they were faced with, they could and would push through it. To afford True Cross Academy Shizuku had skipped meals and used the same shoes until he was walking on nothing but threads and the scraped soles of his feet: never once had he complained or wavered. It was Kasumi who had yelled at him and force-fed him out of her own rice bowl, just as it was Shizuku who yelled at her and told her to stay away from the hazardous guy she claimed to love. People who are too stubborn for their own good need someone who will take care of them when they don't do it themselves.

Kasumi made light of it when she spoke of her illiteracy – humorous, even. That didn't mean anything. She was a craftsman and a streetwise scholar, and a craftsman knows to apply a varnish that will protect against the harshness of the weathers.

"I never would have guessed. Even if I had I don't think it's something you should feel bad about. Of all bad habits and dark secrets people have, not being able to read is…" No, that didn't sound good, or comforting. Shiro suspected that he didn't have the foggiest idea what his mouth was really saying, and made an active effort to blink himself awake and gather his thoughts. "I'm just mumbling shit. _I_ don't think that not being able to read is something to be ashamed of but I don't have to deal with it so I wouldn't know. It's gotta be handicapping in many situations. Still it looks like you're pulling through."

"Ye develop yer strategies ta get around it", she replied easily, and whether or not he had managed to sound comforting he would never know. "I wasn't actually late 'cause of bad weather like I said in the telegram. I can write bad weather: I can't write farmhand or sowing season." Kasumi folded her fan and stretched, grabbing it with both hands and raising them high over her head with a thin, content hum. "Truth is I'm pretty beat, too. Tonbo is in high demand out in the countryside but after a few days I'm so drained I could'a just brought up the damn rice seedlings myself instead." At the mention of her name, the shahrokh let out a little bark and gazed demandingly at her. Tonbo did the job faster, and would not have that pass by unacknowledged. "I wouldn't mind takin' a day's vacation ta just relax by our lake. What'cha think? Dozin' in the grass, catchin' each other up…?" Kasumi shot him the question with her eyes as she ruffled the long fur around Tonbo's neck.

"You mean you're not gonna beat me up?" he joked. It had become an odd sort of ritual, in a way – either that they mock fought or that she smacked sense into him when he needed it.

"Ya want me to? There anotha' dark secret ya wanna share~?"

" _She_ is _gonna beat you up if you don't do this right._ " It had to be done. Shiro drew a breath. It _had_ to. "In a way, yeah. I'm going overseas come summer. I was hesitant for a long time but it's- I think it's the right decision. They only accept a limited number of applicants and I was lucky to get the chance." He had to pause and swallow to press the nausea down past the tightness in his ribcage. It barely helped at all. His mouth was dry, his chest a knot of angst, his whole being protesting against what he was about to do. "I'm going to-"

"Rome. I know."

She knew? Shiro lost track of what he was going to say, staring at her in utter disbelief. Kasumi mirrored his expression but only for a few seconds before his dumbfounded look made her poker face fall and the laughter spilled out.

"What? Ye were so scared I'd feel let down that ya didn't dare tell me till now? Goddamn ye're cute!"

The hell was she saying? How could she _not_ be- No they couldn't be thinking of the same thing.

"It's not cute!" That was the least of his problems, but the one his brain found easiest to process right now. Given the slightest opportunity to bail it would, his lack of sleep not making things better, and that thin sliver of determination he had managed to dig up wavered and slid out of his grasp.

"It is", she maintained with a lopsided grin that knew better than him anyway. "An' scatterbrained. Come on, don't ya think I get ta hear the talk from Midori and Sen-chan? An' from Shizzy, but, well – for him it's a good riddance thing." Kasumi snorted. "I'd curse his stubbornness if I didn't know I'd be cursing my own butt too. So when are ya coming back from there?"

"Hard to say." The contract had no time limit: it would last as long as it took for Shiro to hand over Tanzi. "As long as it takes for me to get my other Meisters. A year, maybe two – maybe more. I'd be ashamed of myself if it took more than two years."

"I sure hope ye're not gone that long." There was a pensive quality to her voice all of a sudden, and when Shiro glanced at her she was gazing through the lake again. "Did ya ever hear Shizzy's teasing? He likes ta make insinuations whenever there's a guy that takes a shine ta me. Mom doesn't tease, she just asks if I've met someone yet. It gets really annoying, even if they mean well, but lately I've been thinking 'bout it meself, too."

The sun had risen enough to reach their bridge, and Kasumi tucked her folded fan away in the sleeve of her yukata. For a second she didn't know what to do with her hands now that they were empty, but settled for lacing them together on the bridge railing. Rubbing one thumb over the other, she continued:

"I've always intended ta get married, one way or the other. But life happens. There's always been places ta go and things ta do, an' before I knew it I'm twenty-seven years old." Shiro knew where this was going. Though at the same time he didn't. His brain wasn't prepared to take in something so huge and important and… loaded with responsibility. "I've neva' wanted ta think of age difference as a problem", Kasumi continued. "That it's something that should matter when I meet my 'someone'. It doesn't, it just complicates certain things. Ye're just out of school, startin' ta build a career an' all – an' ya should, ya really should. This is when life begins fer real. I wouldn't dream o' taking that away from ya." She met his eyes, silently and solemnly vowing that she didn't want to impose anything on him that he wasn't ready for. "I just need ya ta know… that… Time's passing fer me too. If I'm gonna have kids an' family I need ta do that while I'm still able. If ya spend two years in Rome I'll be twenty-nine when ya come back. Past thirty my chances of getting pregnant will just drop an' drop." Kasumi sighed: not a tired sigh, but the kind of short, sharp sigh that comes from completing a task and feeling refreshed afterwards. She shook her head, then smiled softly. "I'm sorry. This is probably not a talk ya wanted ta have on yer birthday. It's been on my mind lately so I thought I should, just, get it out there. There's plenty o' time fer ya te think, it's not somethin' ye can or should decide without deliberation. No need ta look all scared", she chuckled warmly and kissed him on the cheek.

Shiro couldn't rightly respond there and then. It may have been many hours since he stormed out of his uncle's apartment but without sleep to clear his head the memory was as fresh as if it had been minutes ago. His conclusions were fresh in mind, too: exorcists didn't make good family fathers. No man in his family had been a good father. _He_ was most certainly not ready to become a father.

"I will need to think about that", he managed to get out at last. "When I've caught up on some sleep." He groaned when another thought hit him. "After exams, probably. The avalanche is building up."

"Better take tha chance an' get us some shut-eye, then. Lake?" Kasumi hoisted her backpack up on her shoulder without further comment. Tonbo, who had been cleaning her feathers while the humans tended to their incomprehensible human business, perked up and shook herself head to tail in a flurry of small, shimmering down. "How about ya put that on instead 'o carrying it? If it's not a good fit it's better ta know now while I'm around ta fix it."

The utility belt fit perfectly. Snug as a glove, it hugged his hips with enough room left to fit around an exorcist coat, and the chart for phials hung just high enough not to get in the way of movement. Shiro checked the hoops, too, and from what his fingers remembered of the phials he had handled under Matsuri-sensei's supervision they were just the right size.

"It's perfect", he concluded simply. "How did you do this without having a reference?"

"I got contacts", Kasumi replied with an impish wink. "Midori-chan smuggled out empty phials fer me. She says Doctor is the hardest class for her, but she'll get it one day. Now: lake. Sun will be there by the time we get there an' then we can sleep till noon~"

* * *

Coming back to the forest lake felt like coming home. Shiro couldn't say he had much experience of what that felt like, but if he could decide then it would feel like this. The place itself greeted him with happy memories and filled his chest with the feeling that this was a safe haven, away from the rest of the world and its problems. The leaf buds were bursting on the mulberry twigs, like firecrackers off a fuse, and the willows were already sporting full drapes of silvery green along the water line. At least a dozen birds alighted from the unkempt grass when they approached and sent out warning chirps from every direction. It was a beautiful place for a terrible act. But it had to be done. Whatever it took. There were times when people had to be what they needed to be rather than what they wanted to be. He was good at being an asshole and good at lying, so just this once; just this one time, to push her away – to _protect_ her – he had to-

A sudden, muffled poof startled Shiro out of his troubled thoughts, but that was only Kasumi dismissing Tonbo.

"She's never been good at that whole sleep thing", she explained and casually gathered up her yukata to sit down in the grass, not five metres away from the lake. She spread herself out over the ground with a sigh of bliss, arms thrown wide. "Ya coming or what?" Kasumi raised a hand to shield her eyes from the sun, glancing up at him with an easy smile.

Drawing a deep breath, Shiro sat down next to her, coating himself with his own layers of varnish to play the role he had to play.

"I've been thinking a lot about this. I want Rome to be a fresh start – after all the crap that's been happening here now."

He didn't want this. Obligation or not he didn't want to fucking do this. It hurt, it clenched, it made him nauseous, and he didn't have a fucking choice.

"Yeah, I can understand that."

No she couldn't. There was no way she could understand and Shiro had to swallow that scream down with the rest of the silenced feelings that twisted in his chest. He loved her. Goddammit did he love her. He didn't want to do this.

"I'm thinking it could be a fresh start for you guys here, too", he said, trying his best to sound like this wasn't bothering him. "Like I said I don't know how long I'll be gone, and… rather than making you put your life on hold…"

He didn't deserve her and she didn't deserve this. She didn't deserve to be pushed away and she didn't deserve to stay with a shit like him. She would have been better off if they had never met at all. He was setting all that right now, in a way, and yet his whole being fought him when he tried to get the words past his lips. It was like his body had a will of its own, acting as if…

…as if he were…

Only when it was too late did he feel it: the numb loss of sensation, the dark tide flooding his thoughts and choking his consciousness out. He had been too tired and too preoccupied to notice that his fears were being fanned, just like Midori had said long ago: it's stupid to make yourself weak when facing your demons. His heart was not an iron wall: it was a tattered civil war, emotion fighting reason and his brain too tired to maintain resistance. And now it was too late. It would all happen again, like déjà vu. Like a looped hell where all the worst things in his life happened over and over.  
 ** _  
"That's right, that's right, it's all happening again and do you know why? 'Cause you're weak, my boy. You can't protect anything. Not your heart, not your friends, not your woman. It will be just like last time – remember last time?"  
_**  
Flashing shards of memory pierced his vision, of teeth tearing skin and the salty copper taste of blood, everywhere, blood everywhere, and tear-bright eyes that scream at him and hands that hold her mangled face together. He's there again and the panic is there again, except doubled because it's happening right now, again, just outside the reach of his fingers: he's going to attack her and he's going to hurt her and-  
 **** __  
"Good riddance, eh? You were just about to say you didn't care about her anyway, weren't you? Just some juicy meat to fuck then throw away – that's what she'll think she was to you, you know? She dreamt of a future with family and kids, and you, you just wanted a nice piece of pussy to jerk off in."

Shiro fought a madman's fight: tooth and nail, scratch and bite, swept away by pulsing waves of fear. For nothing, of course. You don't fight demons with fear. You don't win by throwing yourself at them in mad desperation. When the demon's cackling laughter echoed in his ears and the darkness threatened to swallow his senses, Shiro finally remembered that. You fight by taking control. Over your emotions, over the darkness, over yourself, over the demon. You don't push it away; you acknowledge it, become one with it, control it.

Edges blurred. What was he and what was demon blurred, until the blur gained shape and focus and he could see again. It was a fractured vision, where what he saw one instant didn't seem to connect with what he saw in the next. One moment Kasumi was metres away, eyeing him warily and clutching her summoning paper in hand: the next she was closer, looking almost like she was going to reach out to him. It was like a motion captured in a series of still photographs. _He_ was moving, too, between the pictures: switching position and switching angle. Only then did Shiro realise what the fractured vision meant. The battle for control was so closely tied that he and the demon were swapping places by the second. His body felt like it was made of smoke and leaking; where it began and where it ended, and what size it was, were things he couldn't determine. Yet he needed a point of reference, somewhere he could focus, somewhere he could anchor his control.

" _Let's see how you like this._ "

He and the demon were closely tied, yes. It had drunk deeply out of his emotions to fuel its control and he had let it, making its darkness his own darkness until he had a firm hold of the invader: then he did the same. Feeling the demon, tasting it, listening in with unseen ears and determining its nature – its weaknesses.

Once Shiro knew what type of demon it was, he began reciting: first in his mind and then, as the demon lost focus and began thrashing wildly to escape, with his voice. It was so much easier when he and the demon were bonded – he could feel directly when he came upon verses that it feared, rather than winging approximate guesses as he had to do when meeting demons face to face.

The smoke cleared as he chanted. His body gained solid borders again, and his vision stayed steady without skipping frames. He didn't look at Kasumi. Instead he fixed his eyes on the grass, focused on bringing the verses out of memory and on the feeling of the demon slowly getting dragged up through his throat. At the last word, his whole body convulsed and he fell down on hands and knees. Although the thick, black smoke that gushed out of his mouth left no taste, it was a lot like vomiting: the dizziness, the cold sweat, the faintness shaking his limbs.

Shiro's fingers curled into fists, clutching the grass in a white-knuckled grip. He felt hollow inside, and it was a void that filled up with tears at alarming speed. He had fucked up, like he always did. Because he was powerless, because he was careless, because when push came to shove he still couldn't do what he had to do. He couldn't tell her. Not like this. But he _had_ to, somehow, he-

He could write a letter. He could explain it to her without doing it face to face: it was safer. Better. It was a lowly excuse and he was a coward for using it but all be damned he couldn't do this. He didn't want this – none of this.

"Fuji?" Her voice reached him after god knew how long, calm and steady like their teachers had taught them you should speak when dealing with shocked civilians. "Fuji, what's wrong?" Kasumi knelt beside him, her eyes prying and poking for a reason and her eyebrows drawn tight with worry. He needed a reason. One she would believe.

"I… went to see my relatives yesterday", he said, voice hollow. A truth used as lie. A good lie. The best kind of lie. And while it was beyond unnecessary, Shiro still added; "It wasn't so good."

He was forcing his breathing calm. Slow breaths to cease the tremors. No blinking – he could feel the tears reaching his eyes and he didn't want them to spill. Not in front of her. Kasumi scooted closer to his side until their arms pressed together and laid her head on his shoulder. It was a warm weight, telling him she was there yet giving him privacy; she wouldn't see his face, so no need to school it into an acceptably stoic mask.

"If ya need ta talk just talk: I'm listenin'."

Maybe he did. With the stress of meeting Kasumi today he hadn't taken the time to sort through yesterday properly. Maybe he did need to talk.

Shiro blinked, and hot tears trickled down his cheeks.

"It was… bizarre", he began, as that was the best word that came to mind. "I haven't seen my uncle's family in nine years, so I knew it was gonna be awkward. They were all very friendly at first – of sorts. It was that kind of polite friendliness I lost after I moved in at the orphanage. I couldn't put my finger on it then but they were trying to make me feel like we were a family, and that we had always been a family. Which is nothing but a big fat lie. They could've visited me at the orphanage anytime and they didn't come even once. I tried not to think about that, though. 'Cause I… I wanted to believe them." He paused, swallowing down a lump in his throat that threatened to become a sob. "Then after a while they brought out old photo albums."

A humourless smile touched his lips at the memory of it. He still regretted that he hadn't remembered to bring those albums with him when he left. That was also hard to put a finger on. He didn't miss the child he had been before, and he didn't miss his parents in ways that made old photo albums seem like cherished treasures… But they had been his. Those pictures and memories had been his, and they had been taken there – _bought_ – by his uncle when his parents passed away. It wasn't right. Satoshi didn't have any right to a single piece of him.

"Those albums belonged to my parents", he resumed, comforted by the warm weight of Kasumi's silent support. "Not to Satoshi. They belong to me. He used them to make me think that I belonged there, with them, despite everything. Then he shoved the adoption papers under my nose right after. Here's the twist of the story: I'm the only kid my parents had, and uncle Satoshi has four daughters. He runs a logistics business but has no one to take it over."

Kasumi let out a groan, knowing where that story was headed, but let him continue without interrupting. Shiro tipped his head sideways, resting it on top of hers. He could hear frogs croaking in the reeds, wind rustling in the willow leaves. Such a frail bubble of peace, that place: if he fell asleep there, maybe the nightmares wouldn't find him. He still dreamt of Deep Keep, even if it had been over a year ago. The unforgiving dead, the fear he hadn't felt then come to haunt him at full force; the blinding pain of being torn apart by Samael's power. Night or day, asleep or awake: his life resembled Hell more and more.

"I often wondered where they were, all those years I was at the orphanage", he said softly, letting his mind choose whatever words it wanted. "All the kids there had the same dream: that one day someone would come to pick them up, take them home. I stopped dreaming about that long ago. Then out of nowhere my uncle suddenly wants me, after nine years of not giving a shit", he snorted; when he breathed in again, he closed his eyes and focused on the smell of Kasumi's hair. He wanted to remember that, too. Road dust and wildflowers. Hard work. Salty sweat. Grass futons. That was the family he wanted. "He didn't want _me_. He wanted my name. Family name and family blood to run the company, not even asking if I wanted to or not. I said I didn't, but did he care? Not a shit. Not a shit more than he's cared the other nine years. Fucking douchebag."

It did feel better to share it with another human being. Like setting it free instead of having it aching and knotting inside of him. With a relieved sigh, Shiro sank down in the grass, pulling Kasumi with him with an arm around her waist.

"I feel much better now. Thanks."

Kasumi nestled in next to him, head resting on his chest and hand laying limp and content over his abdomen.

"Yer uncle's a dick", she murmured in a way so matter-of-factly that he smiled up at the sky. "It's not easy bein' a dick: all ya can do is piss on people an' be a jerk-off."

It was good to laugh. It was good to laugh and hear Kasumi's throaty chuckles at her own joke thrum against his body. For that one moment of happiness he was willing to forget the letter he would write, forget all about the future he was walking towards, and just… be happy.

"Family's where yer heart is." She repeated the words she had spoken long ago, the first time they came to this lake together. "Ya know that, right? It's not a bunch o' pricks ya just happen ta share blood with."

"Mh, I know. It's the rest of the world that doesn't. We should just run away. Screw this whole sick system. Have a family without messed up duties."

"Ye'll like the roads", she hummed. "Lesson one: how ta sleep under bare sky." Kasumi's hand reached up and gently lifted off his glasses, folding them and placing them on his chest with the string still around his neck.

"Mh, I could use sleep." Shiro adjusted his arm so he could cradle her against his side. "What about you?"

"I'll see how long I can keep ya awake, of course."

She raised her head back up a little to pull the pin out of her hair knot. She shook it out so it fell over his arm, soft and smooth, when she laid down again.

"You're not a bit better than Tonbo", he murmured with a smile, closing his eyes against the sun and twirling strands of sun-bleached hair between his fingers. He opened them again when he felt something touch his chest: Kasumi had begun drawing leisurely patterns on him with her hairpin. He closed his eyes again and continued: "She made a complete fool out of me today. I had stopped by this convenience store to grab a quick breakfast…"

Kasumi had a good chuckle at the story. Tonbo liked to "test" you, according to her. She had been a rambunctious little pain in the butt when Kasumi first summoned her, and only after months of trying had she been able to one-up her familiar and win some respect from the little tyke.

The tickling trace of the hairpin vanished from his chest; when it reappeared again, on his throat, it was the other end of it, the thicker, blunter one. It brushed slowly up and down, tracing muscles and the contours of his windpipe; Shiro relaxed to the touch, sinking into it, and almost didn't hear when Kasumi spoke again:

"Shizzy told me somethin' I didn't quite get. 'E said that when ye're an exorcist ya don't get conscripted, but isn't that mandatory fer everyone?"

"That? No, True Cross' exorcists are already part of the army, actually. I think we're listed as… 'specialised civil defence militia' or something like that – not sure." Summer warmth was making him feel comfortably fuzzy, thoughts drifting in and out between the lines of cicada song and tousling up in sleepy yarns: the gentle tickle on his skin was the only thing that kept him connected to his body in the waking world. "They don't draft us to the regular troops, that's the bottom line. There's always a higher incidence of demonic activity during war; somebody's gotta take care of that, too."

"'Cause people are afraid", Kasumi nodded to herself, rubbing her cheek against his chest. "An' hungry an' poor. So technically they just want'cha ta do what ya always do?"

"Pretty much. Stay put, protect civilians, get rid of demons. In case enemies invade we'd fight them, too, but I really hope it never goes that far." He didn't want to experience something like Deep Keep ever again. For an instant the nightmares hovered at the corners of his eyes; he squinted against the sky, letting in the bright light to chase them away.

"Yeah, pray the gods we never go ta war again", she murmured. Shiro had never been to Hiroshima or Nagasaki, but Kasumi's family made pilgrimage to the cities every year to pray. Did someone hear those prayers…? Or they went as unheard and unanswered as his? "Speaking o' that, I always wondered why humans aren't usin' demons in warfare. Not that I'd want us to but when it comes ta war we tend ta try all dirty tricks we can think of."

"God, I read about that in exorcism history, but it feels like it's been forever." Shiro rubbed his forehead, as if the motion would clear the sleepy fuzz out of his thoughts. "It goes back to Solomon, I think."

"Neva' heard o' the guy."

"Some old king who's been dead since forever. He's one of the greatest Tamers we know of, though what he's really famous for is his fuckups. He kept hundreds of familiars that he used for everything from warfare to construction work. Then one day he summoned something – for war, probably, since it was so powerful – and something went very wrong. The land Solomon ruled has been cursed ever since. And we're talking a three thousand year curse there." When she heard that, Kasumi blew an impressed whistle. Three thousand years is a long time, even for demons. "It's not that different from the radioactivity after the atomic bombs, actually. It had the same consequences in more than one way: on behalf of the world's nations, religious denominations everywhere have agreed that demons should never be used in warfare, to avoid a catastrophe like the one Solomon caused."

"Hah, whaddaya know – one man's pain, another man's gain."

"What?" He turned his head slightly, hoping to hear her better.

"One man's pain, another man's gain. Ya never heard that? It's mom's favourite idiom."

"Your mom suddenly sounds like a pretty brutal person", he smiled.

"Far from it!" Kasumi laughed. "I think it's an idiom that inspires ya ta humble yerself and reflect on the world as a whole. Nothing's ever inherently bad – bad fer you, maybe, but it always benefits some otha' creature in some way. An' what's good for you might be bad for someone else. Thus we're all connected."

"I just think it sounds like someone's benefitting from someone else's misfortune." Like demons, although he didn't say that out loud.

"That's 'cause ye're an exorcist through an' through", she jabbed with a smile in her voice. "Not much in touch with yer spirit. It's weird that they don't teach ya that, really. Ye're more… Yeah, military, without being proper military." She heaved a dramatic sigh. "I guess this means I won't get ta see ya all handsome in a uniform."

"You can see me all handsome in an exorcist uniform."

"Uh-uh: not the same. Speaking o' that: why do ya have dresses fer uniforms? Isn't that damn impractical if ya need ta jump fences or somethin'?"

…While Shiro had never explicitly thought of their uniforms as dresses, he too had wondered if there weren't better design options.

"I hear the final test to pass your exams is to run an obstacle course with the robes on: if you can do that you pass", he joked with a grin. "No, but I will probably face-plant the first few times I'm in the field. I'll get the hang of it eventually. Then I can look handsome for you."

"My knight in shining evening gown~" she snickered.

"The little black one isn't just for women, you know", he snorted as laughter bubbled up in his chest.

"An' then ya tear it off an' shout 'Honey Flash!'" Kasumi whipped her hand up in the air as if tearing off his t-shirt.

"And then we start singing!"

"I've heard yer singing – that fatal verse'll kill anything!"

"That must be the secret to abbreviating chants!"

"Holy shit Fuji ya cracked the mystery!"

And like that, they writhed in the sunny grass, sniffling with laughter and clutching at each other and laughing even more, as if everything was suddenly very funny and no serious matter could reach past their little bubble of sunshine silliness. They weren't exorcists then, nor were they weighed by contracts or worries for the future: they were two tired lovers, both young, both high on summer, and they were drinking life in with every breath. It was a fairy tale image for a fairy tale ending: prince and princess heading for the sunset hand in hand, your perfect happily-ever-after.

Not all appreciate that kind of ending.

* * *

_Tch! A torch to keep away the dark: indeed! And how skillful your ineptitude at keeping it alight!_

Faith is found in times of need: dark times, hard times – desperate times, when hopes and wishes are all that's left. That is when faith is needed most. Beyond that shielding light are shadows that will cater to the heart's despair at slightest sign that torch burns weak, for hopes and wishes are the merchandise of Hell. 'Tis not coincidence that it is men of faith who combat demons; they are the only ones who can.

_You have yet to learn what it means to wear those black robes, little lion._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Tonbo** should mean "dragonfly", but do correct me if I'm wrong!
> 
>  **Nikuman** are relatives of dumplings in that they're steamed buns with filling, but they're bigger and fluffier.
> 
>  **Niboshi** are small dried sardines.
> 
>  **Cutie Honey** is an anime about a Catholic school girl android who strips in every episode and fights… I-don't-even-know. The character design on the enemies are just wtf. Lots of things in that anime are wtf, like Honey randomly turning her fight into a song number. You could watch it for laughs, I guess…?
> 
>  **The army that wasn't** \- I realise this might need some clarification. Many of you will know that Japan hasn't actually had an army since World War II; the treaty signed then forbade them from having that, and instead they would rely on American troops for protection. By the 50's, however, Japan did get an army. The Korea war came about and the US transferred its troops from Japan to Korea, leaving the island nation without protection. They had no choice but to allow Japan an army of its own. It came with restrictions on manpower and equipment but was in every way an army, just never called an army because the treaty specified that Japan couldn't have one. Instead they called it "Self-Defence Force". Which is an army that can only be used for defending against attacks, not for attacking.
> 
> The mystery of how verses work isn't exactly clear to me. ≥.≥' It's mentioned in one of Kato's Q&A's that powerful Arias can say shortened versions of the fatal verses and still get the same effect. I had always thought, like Shiro, that the power of the verses lay in the words: in the same Q&A, Bon says that as an Aria you have to get the whole verse right for anything to happen, so if you miss or add a word somewhere you'll have to start over from the beginning. But evidently there's ways to hack that. How that works I don't know, but if the power doesn't come from the words then the only other place they could come from is the Arias themselves (or God, or some demon posing as god, but I'll refrain from speculating on that track since it, so far, doesn't look like AnE has any actual gods). Still, all the power can't be from the Arias, 'cause then you wouldn't need special verses.
> 
> The way I think of it is like… The verses can, on their own, take down a demon: you don't need to put any mental strength into it as long as you say them verbatim right. But reciting the whole thing takes time, and you might not always have that time. If you do have access to that extra strength within yourself – be it focus or faith or whatever – then you can draw additional power from that. You can abbreviate the verse, which means lessening both its effect and its duration, but compensate for that loss of power through pitching in your own inner strength. That saved time could, in a tight spot, be the difference between life and death for you and/or your teammates.


	82. Unseen gears

May month had been brutal not just in terms of weather. The onslaught of exams had even made other cram school students than Shiro take to cigarettes to clear their heads and calm their nerves: himself he had seen scripture verses sliding over the insides of his eyelids every night when he went to sleep. But now it was over. It was early June, exam results were up on the noticeboard, and the relief was tangible in the corridor archways and on the faces of the students. What came now was a different kind of tension, the kind that felt like sparkling water in one's veins. They were going to be given their robes and their badges, and they were going to graduate as exorcists.

All students had their own mail compartments at the Academy. Shiro's rarely ever had anything in it – maybe the occasional anonymous hate mail to Satan's vessel, but even those were growing fewer – but he checked it every day anyway since notifications from the school were sent to that compartment. Today, he checked it for very specific reasons: last week they had taken ID photos for their exorcist licenses, and the cards would arrive on the morning of the graduation day.

The envelope looked harmless enough – standard Order stationary with the emblem in one corner and his name in the middle. The ID card inside it looked just as it should, once his switchblade had cut the envelope open with accustomed ease. Shiro took a moment to just look at the tiny piece of plastic and accustom himself to the thought that, starting today, he would be a licensed-

Shiro froze.

No. It couldn't be. Not even _he_ would-

" _Oh he would."_ Inside, Shiro snarled. Outside, he closed his mail compartment with perfect calm.

The frightening individuals aren't the ones that scream and thrash when they explode. The frightening ones are those who walk away quietly. Calmly. Coldly. Their rage doesn't lash out. Their rage is theirs, burning like ice in their veins, and it distils them into something sharp and merciless.

Shiro himself didn't notice how students hurried out of his way when he stalked through campus. He didn't see the shudder in their eyes when he passed them by. The only thing he was aware of was how the cold rage grew hotter as the demon's presence grew closer – how his shields grew thinner and thinner with each step. It was like waking up, the sweet feeling of his monochrome world gaining colour and of being alive, so gloriously awake and alive.

And furious.

Shiro threw open the office doors with a force that sent them rebounding off the walls on either side. The slam caused the air conditioner to sputter alarmingly from above the door, but it regained its breath. Shiro strode across the floor, past the round table, straight for Samael's cluttered desk. He ignored the greeting and the fake smile and slapped his ID card down on the desktop.

"You think this is funny?" The card landed with a smack louder than what should come from such a light object.

 _Fujimoto, Shiro Alexander  
570510-6951_  
 _Order of the True Cross: Lower Second Class Toy Boy_  
Aria, Dragoon

Samael cast a moderately interested glance at the card, as he already knew what it said and what it should have said.

"I'm a man of my word", he replied easily. His air of innocence was in stark contrast to the glee that practically buzzed around him. "I told you quite clearly what I would do if you kept calling me by undignified nicknames."

Not for the first time, Shiro wished he had had the means to really hurt Samael. He hadn't. But one day he would. Anticipating that day, he filed the moment away in memory, in the steadily growing archive of things he would pay him back for when he found a way to give the son of a fuck what he deserved. Patience, patience, and knowledge: one day…

"First off, we're not on joking terms", he spat. "Second, you want my cooperation; I know you do. Did it ever cross your dickwad mind that I would _happily_ give you that if you quit being an asshole all the time? I bet it did. But that wouldn't be half as fun, so you keep being an asshole – and that's why, _Sammy_ , I keep calling you undignified nicknames, 'cause I know you'll screw me over anyway even if I stop." When Shiro was done, he took a moment to pat himself in the back for keeping his head clear enough to deliver that piece of mind.

"My my: are you trying to fool yourself or me? You would never _happily_ bow to anyone, little lion. You're much too fond of-"

"That's why I said _cooperation_ – but I guess that word is unfamiliar to you?" he retorted venomously. "Too high and mighty to ask, so you resort to fucking people over until they do as you want."

The only reaction he got out of Samael, however, was a less than impressed quirk of his facial features. Like one who is getting tired of how his puppy dog won't cease to fruitlessly bite his shoes.

"It's hardly my fault you've lost all sense of humour. Really, doesn't it get dull to be that morose all the time?"

What followed was one of those moments Shiro had a complete blackout from sheer incredulous rage that didn't know what to do with itself. Not _his_ fault that-?! There was so much that _was_ his fault that Shiro didn't even know where to begin because evidently it was some fucking _mystery_ to Samael how he could be too hurt and angry to feel like joking as if nothing had happened!

"It does, doesn't it?" the demon concluded in the silence while Shiro was still struggling with finding a way to make the idiot see that _everything_ was his fault. "Perhaps this will help lift your spirits?"

The instant Samael uttered those words, Shiro felt _it_. It was something he had felt all the time while he had cooking classes with Ukobach and Belial: a shudder, rippling over his eardrums as if tickled by a sound that didn't exist. He had assumed it was some kind of wind rush from the exhaust hood above the stove, or some particularly high-pitched squeak in Ukobach's chattering, that had caused it. Needless to say, there was no stove in Samael's office.

" _The air conditioner…?_ "

Shiro wasn't given time to ponder what else it could be because, as if on cue, the door to the office bathroom was opened – or the door to what should have been the bathroom. Belial stepped through and stepped to the side, holding the door open and bowing for the line of people trailing in from one of the cram school's classrooms. Shiro recognised all of them as his cram school teachers, some padding through in easy gait while others walked a bit awkwardly, with their hands behind their backs. Sticking out like a pair of sore thumbs in the throng of black robes were the floral patterned kimonos of Moriyama Mayu and Sayuri. They all formed a line, standing side by side and putting a cagey Shiro in between Samael's desk and the wall of secretive, smiling exorcists.

Was he supposed to do something? Say something…? Shiro's anger was slowly replaced by wary confusion over this turn of events. The longer the silence dragged on, the more did he think the teaching staff was going to pull a practical joke on him after all.

"So." The one who spoke was his Demonology teacher, elderly little Kohu-sensei. "As the most senior member of the staff, I have the privilege of sharing my thoughts first: my thoughts on you, that is." He must have tensed up when she said it; she wouldn't be smiling like that otherwise. It was her yokai yakuza Smile of Having You at Her Mercy. "You are by far the most attentive student I've had, although not one who turned in all his homework on time." Having delivered her jab in satisfactory manner, Kohu-sensei seemed to soften her attitude, until she appeared more like a tender old grandmother. "But what makes you truly stand out is that you are the only one who managed to get Sir Pheles into a proper suit."

It was bordering on the absurd, to hear an old lady speak of the King of Time the same way she spoke of an unreliable student. He knew how Goggles-sensei viewed Samael, but what kind of history Kohu-sensei had with him was something Shiro could never guess. Samael himself seemed only mildly affronted by the jibe; his eyebrows had risen in surprise, but his eyes remained unimpressedly half-mast. As far as he was concerned, all his suits were proper.

"That may not have much to do with your education", Kohu admitted, "but it says something of what kind of man you are, and what we can expect from you as an exorcist. You have your own way of doing things, and though it's often an unorthodox way I don't think anyone here can complain about the results. They may not always appreciate your way of doing things in Rome, but this once I'll say to you: don't listen to your teachers." There it was again, the yokai yakuza smile. This time, however, it was a conspiratorial smile: a smile that included him in the loop. "Do things your way, and they will be as astonished by the results as we have been. Good luck, young man." Next to her, Toshio-sensei handed her a bundle he had been hiding behind his back. Kohu-sensei, in turn, padded forward and offered it to Shiro. It was black fabric, folded square and neat, with white edges trimming the lapels and silver buttons gleaming in the lamplight.

"Thank you, sensei."

As the old woman returned to her spot in the line, Futotsuki-sensei cleared his throat. The Tamer instructor had aged during the clashes between the Order and his clan, making him greyer than Kohu-sensei. Over the past year he had also been cultivating a dragon moustache and was starting to look distinctly like his salamander familiar.

"Though not of the same venerable age as Kohu-senpai, I am quite old", his resonant voice declared. "When Sir Pheles asked us if we wished to give you a few parting words, I had hoped those years would have given me some form of wisdom to impart on you. Sadly, I think I can only tell you what we both already know." The old man smiled warmly at him. "I have not changed my opinion of you since you first summoned a shahrokh in my class: you have the makings of an excellent Tamer, and an exceptional exorcist."

Shiro squared his shoulders where he stood and fought viciously against the heat that rose in his cheeks. All this talk about 'exceptional' when half the time he was just bumbling ahead like an idiot and improvising as he got into trouble...

"Just bear in mind that the extraordinary are always fewer in number than the ordinary, and that a majority may not always look kindly upon a minority that is unlike themselves", said Futotsuki-sensei sombrely. It was a sudden change of mood, but it was the words of a man who knew the weight of what he said. "You, especially, carry a burden that other exorcists don't: I pray that you will continue to find the strength within yourself to bear it, and bear all the additional burdens it might cause to fall on you." He bowed, and Shiro bowed reflexively in response. "Best of luck in life, Fujimoto-kun."

"Thank you, sensei."

The pattern was clear to him now, so Shiro wasn't surprised when the next teacher spoke up. He hadn't had many classes with Toshio-sensei, only been at the receiving end of the Knight teacher's scolding the times he had acted rashly on missions.

"You're not the worst Knight I've had." Toshio-sensei's voice made it clear he still wasn't far from taking the cake. "I thought I should start off with the good part. The worst one quit after he stabbed himself in the shin – you can thank Sir Pheles for taking you out of class before you could manage that. I don't know what he did when he trained you but I sure couldn't have done it. I only have one advice for you in Italy: get your Knight instructor to train you in the German school of European swordsmanship. I know Rome has this romantic attachment to the Italian style but you're not cut out for the Italian style. The Germans are the ones with the dirty tricks. I hear you're good with those." The tall, sturdy man cast a quick but telling glance at Samael and his clipped tress of hair, and Shiro wondered just how all the gossip reached the teachers' staff room. "No reason not to use one's talents, right? And no excuse not to work on one's shortcomings." Toshio-sensei's lips quirked into the disapproving frown Shiro had come to know very well during the missions the Knight supervised. "I'm speaking for the whole staff when I say _quit your suicidal solo runs_ , Fujimoto-kun. Do that and there won't be any need for me to wish you luck in Rome – but knowing what a stubborn head you've got on those shoulders I guess it's best I wish you good luck over there anyway. So good luck."

A smirk quirked Shiro's lips. That was the least heartfelt well wishing he had received that day.

"I think I'll rather stick to Kohu-sensei's advice and not listen to my teachers", he grinned, relishing in the feeling of having his quick mouth back. It was so easy to string together comeback lines when he wasn't preoccupied with guarding himself at all times. "But thanks."

"If only you were that smart in the field, Fujimoto", Toshio-sensei threw back. "Matsuri-kohai?"

Toshio looked to the spindly Anti-demon pharmacology teacher next to him, silently asking if she needed support. Matsuri had taken a bad fall during a mission earlier in the week. The result was a concussion and an open fracture in her left arm, as well as damage to her elbow. It was unclear whether she would have full mobility back or not. Despite being bandaged and heavily drugged on painkillers, she showed no signs of discomfort or fuzziness when she spoke:

"I was a bit saddened when you switched your Meister aim from Doctor to Aria. Of course, we have all been pushing to get you to choose _our_ classes – except Toshio-senpai, maybe", she added with a smile. "Even so, Fujimoto-kun: I'm happy to have had you in my class, and I feel confident that you will impress your Roman Anti-demon pharmacology teacher as you have impressed me." Her expression then shifted to a sterner look. Shiro wondered if it was a template they had all agreed on beforehand: start with the uplifting parts and then bring up the criticism. "I would heed Toshio-senpai's words if I were you. That you have two Meisters doesn't mean you need to do twice the work: it means you have the flexibility to decide which kind of work to do in a given situation. That… was all words of wisdom I had to say, I believe. Good luck, Fujimoto-kun."

"Thank you, sensei. You've been a great teacher – all of you have been great teachers. Except Toshio-sensei, maybe", he added with a playful grin that made at least half of them involuntarily smile and look away.

"Too scared to take me off the list?" Goggles-sensei interjected before said teacher had a chance to snap back at him. Goggles _was_ a scary teacher, but she was also a damn good one, so Shiro wouldn't lump her together with Toshio. "I remember how much you loved my classes when you first came here so I made you this as a keepsake. Not really neon but close enough."

Shiro had no idea what his Aria teacher was talking about until she pulled out the sign she had been hiding behind her. It was plain plywood with kanji painted in a screaming orange that reminded him of road cones. The sign read _Kill me!_ And with a snorting chuckle, Shiro remembered that yes, that was what he had said in his first Aria class: that the passive Arias were like sitting ducks waiting to get shot down.

"The idea being that with this, you can finally be a proper Aria. See it's got a backside, too."

Goggles-sensei was enjoying herself royally as she turned the sign around, and Shiro's chuckle gained company from one or two among the other teachers. On the back of the sign she had written out the basic mnemonic of Arias: Always Rear In Action. She had been trying to hammer that into his skull for a year now.

"What they said." Goggles-sensei casually tossed her head in the direction of Toshio and Matsuri-sensei. "Exorcists work in teams for a reason: everyone's got their designated role. You'll be representing Japan in Rome and I expect you to do it professionally. They're very proud of their Roman Catholic Arias, you know; Arias from other traditions are second-rate in their eyes." Goggles-sensei fired off that nasty grin that, combined with her lidless eyes, made her look downright maniacal. "You're gonna show them who's second-rate: alright?" She held the sign out to him, as a token to seal that agreement. Shiro hefted the uniform robes in under his arm and accepted the gift. "Make me proud, kid."

"You wouldn't tell me even if you were."

"Damn right I wouldn't."

The only two teachers left to speak were the ones that Shiro had perhaps spent most time with: the unmemorable Ando and the fidgety Gokuro-sensei. To Shiro's surprise it was the massive Gokuro-sensei who spoke up first. It might have been the P.E. teacher's insecure manners or his boyish face, but Shiro had thought he was the youngest.

"I'm… not one to hold speeches." Shiro almost smiled. During the long hours he had had Gokuro-sensei as his private coach in the gym he had learnt that it wasn't really stage fright that made him fumble for words; he was that shy always. "I'll just say that I think you will knock them off their feet in Rome, Fujimoto-kun. Not literally, I mean, you'll surprise them with what you can do. I know you can do fantastic things, so just…" Gokuro-sensei halted himself and sighed. "Just don't overdo it, okay? You know your limits, but you've got to respect them as well. Good luck, Fujimoto-kun."

"I'll manage: I had a good teacher."

Gokuro appreciated that – _he_ bowed at the same time as Shiro did. It threw him off completely, at first, until he remembered that they weren't student and teacher anymore. And Gokuro only held a Lower Second Class rank, like Shiro himself.

"Sir Pheles asked us if we wanted to say goodbye and wish you good luck in Rome", Ando-sensei began, probably not even aware that he sounded just like he did when he was explaining the drill of dissembling and reassembling firearms. "I will say goodbye, but I see no need to wish you luck, as luck is only a poor substitute for skill." He hoisted up a sign he had been holding behind his back, just like Goggles-sensei. This sign was much different, however. It was about half as long as Shiro's arm and no wider than his wrist, and he recognised it very well: it was a tile from the scoreboard by the target practice range. "I doubt they can spell your name in Rome so you'd better take this with you and put it up there. At the top." Ando-sensei tapped his finger at the hand-written number 1 set after Shiro's name. "You're the finest Dragoon I ever coached, and if Rome has anyone better I expect you to defend the honour of the Japanese Branch."

"Definitely will, sir." Shiro bowed and held his hands forward so that Ando could place the tile on top of his Aria sign and his exorcist uniform.

Moriyama Mayu was… crying? She was trying hard not to, and did manage to sound perfectly natural when she spoke, but there was an unmistakable glossy shine to her eyes.

"I haven't prepared any speech", she said, bowing slightly to excuse her lack of planning. "I just wanted to wish you luck. With everything. You're a fine young man, Shiro-kun; whatever happens, I hope you will always remember that."

That was more emotion than Shiro could handle. All he could do was swallow, bow, and mumble something that could have been "yes". Moriyama Sayuri wasn't as tender as her mother, thankfully. She was nervous in this company, he could tell from the way her hands trembled around the wrapped parcel they were holding, but all the same she set her jaw and stepped forward.

"Good luck in Rome." She loosened her hands awkwardly from the brown parcel and offered it to him. She met his eyes briefly and then quickly looked down at her gift, swallowing down the slight croak in her voice. "I made them all with elderberry flavour since I didn't know what else you like. There's a box of matches in there, too: just in case."

Their chat in the hanging gardens drifted by in memory, half transparent and void of detail. What lingered was a feeling of importance, that something had been said there that made this gift something more than just a parcel of handmade cigarettes.

"I'll make good use of those. Thank you, Sayuri-chan."

"And thank you all for coming here to send Fujimoto-kun off", Samael spoke up brightly and flashed the assembly his widest grin. "It has been a great pleasure for me as I'm sure it has for you. Now, as the time is drawing near I will ask you to leave our graduate student and me in private: we have things yet to prepare before the ceremony begins. Belial will accompany you back."

The office emptied in orderly fashion, just like the trams and subways during rush hour. Left were the honours graduate and the headmaster that would impart a few words on his prodigy exorcist before sending him off on overseas studies: a seemingly harmless setup.

Seemingly.

"Such sweet employees, truly. Mayu and Sayuri-chan too, of course…" he added as an afterthought that may or may not have been an actual afterthought. Samael glanced slyly at him out of the corner of his eye. "Have you calmed your head now?"

"I'm not strangling you: does that answer your question?" The way Samael phrased himself made questions rise in Shiro's mind, too: hunches, in fact. Hunches that this was more than it at first had seemed. "Are you ever gonna just call me up here, without the games?"

A difficult question, apparently: Samael made a great show of stroking his beard while staring off into space in thought. Shiro took that as his hunch being correct.

"Not likely but not impossible. Now, better put these safely away in your room." He snapped his fingers and made the sign, scoreboard tile, and cigarettes vanish in pink smoke. "And this where it belongs." He snapped the fingers of his other hand and switched Shiro's uniform for the exorcist robes Kohu-sensei had given him.

It felt different from the school uniform. The fabric of the robes was thick and sturdy, giving the garment a weight that embodied the responsibilities its bearer was shouldering.

Samael was busy with the new attire, too. The demon looked him up and down, eyebrows raised in surprise, as if he had forgotten what Shiro looked like.

"My my…" A small smile formed on his lips, one that was quite pleased indeed by this surprise. "You were born to wear a uniform, Shiro."

With the additional _so it can be torn off and tossed on the bedroom floor_ , if you read the way his gaze slid over the rows of buttons.

"Stop fantasising: wouldn't wanna get nosebleed on your white tailcoat."

Samael's reaction was just what he had expected: a flash of delight in the green eyes, a suggestive grin curling the thin lips. He had seen that expression so many times, when they had immersed themselves in their verbal duels.

"You're a bit too young yet to be _that_ appetising, little lion~"

"Not too young to give you nosebleed in other ways." Flat poker face delivery: that felt good.

If felt-?! Goddammit he didn't want to feel good about bantering with Samael! Not one more time would he fall for that! Tch, but the anger from before was gone, washed away by the heartfelt gestures from his teachers. Without new fuel he wasn't sure if he could make it flare up again.

Moreover, he didn't have the time to stand and argue.

"You gonna say anything of importance or can I get going to the ceremony?"

He had already turned to leave when, instead of speaking, Samael lifted out a small case that had been hiding behind a framed autograph of Niki Terumi. Shiro missed a beat. Maybe even two. Two was probably more like it. Did _Samael_ have a parting gift?

Shiro had no illusions of the demon showing that kind of affection – which was exactly what had made the birthday encounter linger in his mind, like that itch Midori had talked about when she first described Samael. An itch, yes. An irritation that only became worse when he tried to scratch it.

Samael got a kick out of manipulating people: that had been _abundantly_ clear the times he had made Shiro walk into his traps. He loved the pain he caused and he wallowed in it like a dog in shit. But that night in the graveyard? There hadn't been a _single_ trace of gloating about him, and that wasn't even the weirdest thing. The weirdest thing was that tart sarcasm when Samael had called him an idiot. It had been a perfect match to the vibe his presence had given off then, and, as strange as that was to imagine, Shiro couldn't shake the feeling that Samael hadn't been lying: that he had been genuinely displeased with the outcome of his game.

In the split seconds Shiro had tried in vain to scratch his mental itch, Samael had placed the lacquered wooden case on his desk and unlatched the hinged lid. Inside the box was a nest of red silk with two sockets side by side. In them rested two spheres barely the size of chicken eggs, matte ochre red in colour but also patched seamlessly with all manner of shades from salmon pink to granite grey.

"Do you know what these are?"

Whatever the spheres were, Samael was like a spoiled child eager to show off his new toys.

"Looks like baoding balls", Shiro replied noncommittally, on guard but taking care to appear relaxed.

Baoding balls were an old Chinese device used both for meditation and for medical purposes: Shiro had been given a pair to practise with last year, after the splint had come off his dislocated finger. His had been of the older kind, made of metal for the weight. Rotating them around each other in one's palm improved both dexterity and strength in the muscles all the way from the elbow out into the fingers. On the inside the balls would be hollow, and held a chime mechanism that made them produce a ringing sound when rotated fast enough.

Why would Samael want to give him something like that? His fingers had been fine for months.

"Very good, but very wrong~ These are the originals that the baoding balls were modelled after." Oh. It was that kind of toy: first edition. "And as such very rare magical artefacts: touch them if you like, but I advise you not to pick them up."

Shiro shot one questioning glance at Samael before stepping closer to the desk and the lacquered case. The ball felt nothing strange when his fingertips touched it. There were no leaping sparks of magic like when he sabotaged the wards of Solomon's Seal long ago. The surface was smooth and cool, just like the metal balls he had used for rehabilitation – a bit _too_ smooth, maybe.

Shiro's brow furrowed. The matte surface told his eyes it should be coarse in texture, like sandpaper, but his skin claimed it had been polished to perfection: the ball was so smooth it felt almost liquid against his fingers. He pressed harder against it, just to test, but it was one hundred per cent solid. Solid on the surface and hollow on the inside. But… that was impossible.

"They're made of stone…?" Made of several kinds of stone but completely solid, as if the rocks had somehow _melted_ together to form a perfect, hollow sphere.

The demon must have found his astonishment pleasing, because he launched himself into one of those enthusiastic yet solemn introductions he would give when there was something he was proud of.

"The Norsemen called them _singasteina_ , the singing stones: a rare amalgamation of earth magic and time magic, the first and only of their kind. My brother and I made them, long ago when I was still experimenting with artificial ways of transportation between Assiah and Gehenna. By itself one of these won't do much of anything; but as a pair…"

Samael smoothed his fingers over the other stone, as if reminiscing: then his fingers _happened_ to brush against Shiro's own. His first reflex was to jerk his hand back, though on second thought he would rather smack Samael's hand away. He did neither. What Samael wanted was to provoke a reaction, and therefore Shiro pretended like he hadn't noticed anything.

"These stones do sing: a duet, one that harmonises at very special frequencies of magic. No matter the distance between them they will hear each other – and when they do, they switch positions in time and space seamlessly." Although 'seamlessly' seemed to be a truth with modification, given the sudden shift in Samael's mood as he remembered the process of making them: "Calibrating them right was nightmarish, to say the least; I can't sense stone and metal and Amaimon can't sense time and space. I ended up at the bottom of the North Atlantic and _sweet lord_ the pain of getting that stone back…" He shot a toxic glare at the offending stone. "They never worked for transporting anyone across the dimensional barrier, but they will be perfect for bringing about my rendezvous with Cardinal Tanzi."

The stone was plucked from its socket in one swift sweep, and chimed faintly as it was – no magic sparks this time either. It hovered above Samael's palm, round and docile, while the demon made a motion as if he were winding a ribbon around it with his free hand.

Shiro felt it again: the ripple over his eardrums, except _this_ ripple skimmed his whole body inside and out. Whatever magic Samael was working around that stone it was disturbing to be near it. Things were moving that shouldn't be able to move and tied things stuck that didn't want to be still: and while that was the vaguest, dumbest stuff he had ever thought, it was the closest he got to describing what Samael was doing. When he was done he seemed to scrutinise his work, letting the stone hover between his palms before snapping his fingers with both hands and sending the artefact off to somewhere Shiro would never know. Samael then closed the case, with the remaining baoding ball snug in its silk nest, and pushed it over to him with a flourish. Whereupon he dug deep into his chest pocket – too deep to be physically possible – and fished out the next object.

"This is the Kamikakushi key." What Samael presented was a leather string with a key hanging from it. It was different from the plain steel keys that rattled in the pockets of the Order's exorcists; this key was golden, with red enamel inlays that created a spiral pattern reminiscent of a snail's shell. "Unlike other magical keys this is not for transport but for storage. It has the power to create a pocket dimension wherever you insert it, and no one will be able to find what you hide in there without this key: a precaution, in case hostile elements would snoop around in your belongings. Turn it clockwise to open and counter-clockwise to seal."

Samael hung the string around his neck, and before Shiro could swat his hand away he had snuck a finger inside his collar and slipped the key inside the coat.

"And for the final touch~" The gloved fingers snapped once and plucked a small card out of the air. It looked exactly the same as the one Shiro had already gotten, except that this license said _Order of the True Cross: Lower Second Class Exorcist._ "Congratulations on becoming an exorcist, Shiro."

* * *

The True Cross Academy atrium was a spectacular piece of architecture. Built not unlike an opera house, it could accommodate a good two thousand people. The walls were lined with niches on all sides, even up on the balconies, and each one of them was host to a statue five metres tall, carved from solid Carrara marble. The atrium was tremendous in size and design, made to awe the students that set foot in it for the first time and for many times to come. It was the one gathering place that was large enough for the whole student body of True Cross Academy, and it was the given venue for every kind of event that meant the whole student body would be present.

It was not where the exorcist graduation was held.

Even in a country as superstitious and old-fashioned as Japan, demons were not part of reality for the general public. They were things of nature that dwelled in mountains, deep in forests, running waters, and dark caves – not in cities among people. Likewise, exorcists weren't part of people's everyday life either. The work they carried out may be vital, yet it went by completely unnoticed – unthanked – by the vast majority. If exorcists didn't graduate in the grand atrium, as the regular students did, it was because exorcists never had and never would live in the same world as they.

Exorcists graduated in the cavernous underground halls of the Order's Japanese headquarters, where the only sounds were furtive drips of water and, now, the rhythmic slap of combat boots on stone pavement. Shiro and nine other youths were marched, two and two, into the gaping Ceremonial Hall. For those who hadn't had fencing classes with Samael it was their first time seeing it, and the girl next to Shiro swept the room with big, impressed eyes that seemed to audibly wonder if there was a ceiling somewhere up there in the shadows. At the central platform they stopped and fanned out into a single line, all facing the assembly of senior exorcists that were waiting for them. The lantern light danced over the water and up at the heavy, woven banners on the walls – and over the single white uniform among all the black ones. Samael stood a little apart from the rest, flanked by a bespectacled exorcist carrying a ceremonial cushion.

On given command, the graduates saluted as one; the Order of the True Cross had, after all, risen out of the military orders of the Middle Ages.

"Today is a special day." The announcement came from a senior exorcist that Shiro didn't know. She looked like Agari might have looked if she had lived to grow old: her back was ramrod straight when she stepped forward, and the iron shine was in her smartly pinned-down hair as well as in her eyes. "We have all been where you are now, and we can attest that this is, most definitely, a turning point in your lives. Until now you have been children, and your teachers have assumed the role of parents, holding your hands and guiding your steps as you learn what it means to be exorcists. Now, we consider you adults. Now, your steps are your own to guide." Her gaze wandered over each one of them, and not until then did Shiro realise she was blinded on one eye. "From this day on you carry the duties of adults and the responsibilities of adults: that is what these robes signify. Black is the colour of death and of mourning within our Order, and what we mourn is ourselves. We mourn our desires. Our selfishness. Our lives." She allowed each word time to echo off the cavern walls, soak in and settle in the shadows. "These are things that we, as exorcists, forswear in order to devote ourselves wholly to a greater purpose: that of serving God and serving humanity. We are His sword, and humanity's shield; that is what this badge signifies."

On cue, Samael and the exorcist carrying the cushion strode forward. Ten badges gleamed on the silk surface. As the exorcist continued her solemn speech, the Branch Director worked his way from left to right, fastening a badge to the uniform lapel of each graduate exorcist.

"Blue stands for servitude, grace, and hope; red stands for the presence of the Lord and the blood of the martyrs."

When it was Shiro's turn to receive his badge he stared blankly straight ahead, getting his eyes stabbed by the garish pink and polka dots of the Branch Director's cravat. That was how he was expected to address Samael from now on: Branch Director. This graduation made them colleagues, which technically brought them closer – horizontally. At the same time it highlighted the vertical distance between them: the executive and the subordinate, the one who gave orders and the one who kept his mouth shut and obeyed.

" _That sounds about right_ ", Shiro mused dryly – anything to distract his thoughts from the deft fingers that ghosted his chest and pinned the badge in place. " _Cooperation is when people cooperate with_ you _._ "

"The cross stands for victory over evil, for love, and for sacrifices made for love", the one-eyed commander droned on. "When we wear this cross over our hearts, we commit ourselves to the Lord, to the fight against evil, and to sacrifice ourselves, as our Lord God did, out of love for mankind."

Shiro liked his teachers' speeches better: they were briefer and they had the good sense of delivering their points with a humorous twist. One look at Samael said he was thinking the exact same thing. When it was his turn to speak, as the one holding the office of Branch Director, he kept it short and chipper: congratulations to the achievement, please help yourselves to food and drink in the foyer, for achievements require celebration. No one batted an eye at this. The Branch Director was an eccentric sort, everybody knew that. It was the image Samael had cultivated and he played the part to perfection.

What he didn't know – what neither of them knew – was that the script of the performance had changed. Not there and then. Not elsewhere and before. For change of this kind there was no _when,_ no _where_ : only the fact that things had changed, and were changing still. Gears turned, in a million places at a million unwitting times, and together they were wrenching history upon a very different path, so clandestinely it went unnoticed even by the King of Time.

That day, when Fujimoto Shiro gained the title of exorcist, new lines were written. Old lines were erased. Circles were broken, and new paths emerged.

It was, though neither of them knew it, the beginning of the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Niki Terumi** is the actress who voiced Simone in La Seine no Hoshi.
> 
>  **The Kamikakushi key** is rendered as the Key of Vanishment in some English translations, but I'm not making the name up. I can't help but find it funny that the key is called "spirited away": Samael is an otaku through and through. x) The literal meaning of kamikakushi is something akin to "hidden by the gods", which I find even more funny considering his past record.
> 
>  **Singasteinn?**  
>  Singasteinn is a word mentioned in Húsdrápa, a poem that is part of the Prose Edda. The story is essentially that Loke and Heimdall battled (in the shape of seals) over this singasteinn on a skerry out in the sea. Now, there's never any mention of singing stones elsewhere in the Prose Edda as far as I know, so scholars have been assuming that Singasteinn was the name of the skerry they fought on.
> 
> There is an alternative interpretation, however. It could be that the singasteinn is actually a signasteinn, which would make much more sense. A signasteinn is a magic stone amulet, and Loke and Heimdall could have been fighting over that. That the battle takes place in the sea kind of supports this interpretation: a signasteinn is no stone at all, but a kind of Caribbean nut that sometimes drifted ashore on Scandinavian beaches and was thought to hold magic properties.
> 
> But this is Blue Exorcist-verse, and furthermore Dimwit-compulsively-meddles-with-history-verse. So the old Prose Edda poem isn't misspelled at all: it did talk about a singing stone, and the stone was indeed magic. Contemporary scholars just aren't aware of that. C:
> 
>  **Exorcist equipment**  
>  The black exorcist robes are probably just meant to look like priestly robes merged with a military uniform. I don't know if they actually mean anything, but the black colour of a Catholic priest's robe means what One Eyed Lady said.
> 
> Huge disclaimer on the badge: I'm just making an interpretation. The combination of blue and red in ecclesiastical contexts is often seen on Virgin Mary, where it's interpreted to mean earthly and divine nature. While that does work for the exorcists, I felt like separating the colours gave a more holistic picture of what I imagine an exorcist's job would be like: serving god, serving the people, representing hope, laying down your life for your cause. The cross itself, well: love and (self) sacrifice.
> 
> The shape of the badge: once again it's all interpretations. The relative heart shape could be a reference to the Sacred Heart, which represents Jesus' divine love for humanity. There also is an overall focus on hearts in AnE: the heart as the source of both power and weakness, in both humans and demons. There's a funny difference there, if you think about it. For a demon, laying bare one's heart is a weakness, and therefore they keep their hearts (where heart also means one's true feelings and desires) concealed. For a human, baring one's heart and being honest with oneself is the one sure way to prevent demons from taking advantage of held-in emotions. So exorcists are encouraged to "wear their heart on their sleeve" – or rather wear it on their lapel?
> 
> Shield: well, we have been given one reference to what the emblem looked like in the Middle Ages, when the Order was founded (AnE ch 38, second page). The knight's shield is painted with the four-quadrant heart design and the barred helmet resting on top. So while the badge is shaped like the shield of a Medieval knight, it started out as a heraldic symbol on a shield belonging to a Medieval knight, and I'm just overly concerned with knitting together something that sounds like legit lore. xD
> 
> A helmet with a visor of barred design, such as the one on the badge, is reserved for members of the nobility. While I don't know what nobility Kato has in mind with that (if she's aware of the significance) I know which nobility I will trace that heraldic element to. =] ("More on that in Rome.")
> 
> The sword is the weapon most commonly associated with knights. If you look at the caparison on the knight's horse, you have the emblem there as well. You can also glean that the tip pointing downwards is slightly elongated (even more elongated later on the badges). What that is supposed to be I don't know, so we're completely off canon ground now. I could guess it represents either a spear, lance, spear-head, or sword. In heraldry they all have military meanings, of course: service and devotion to honour and chivalry (spear/lance), ready for battle (spear-head), military honour, power and freedom (sword). Out of those I'm choosing the sword interpretation mostly because it gives me more metaphors and symbolism to work with. Outside of heraldic imagery, the sword has many meanings in religious context. In Christianity you most prominently find it representing truth (the Word of God), and fighting in the name of justice.


	83. Boxing day

There are few things that make you reflect on your life like seeing it packed up in cardboard boxes. Shiro swept an eye over the empty room, feeling the smell of cleaning agents tickle in his nose. His life looked apologetically small where it huddled in the middle of the floor with no place to be. Like that pile of cigarette ash he'd scooped up. Two large cardboard boxes, that was all it amounted to: one for shipping across the world and one for throwing in the garbage.

The first time Shiro had had his life packed into a box, he had been eleven years old and had just buried his last family member. Moving out of the only home he knew had not been high on his to-do list, but someone – he wouldn't be surprised if it was Satoshi – had called in people to help vacate the place. Shiro had had no control then. He was just another flotsam piece of wreckage swept along by the current when everything was cleared out. His clothes had been packed into one of his dad's suitcases, and he had been picked up and handed over to the orphanage mistress. Like delivering a mail order: sign here to accept the delivery, please, and have a good day. A single cardboard box had followed him into storage, packed with rage, betrayal, and no one to take it out on.

The second time Shiro packed up his life it had been his own choice. Everything had been on his terms: where to move, when to move, all the application forms filled out and sent by him. He had packed his own cardboard box and even transported it himself on the tram that carried students to True Cross Academy.

It had surprised him as much as anyone else at the orphanage that he applied to the fanciest school in town. He hadn't planned on going there, though then again he never made plans any further than the next day. That all changed when Kenta kicked the bucket. Shiro didn't decide to quit _because_ Kenta kicked the bucket: nothing like that. Kenta had been a cool guy, all things considered, but they had never been close. Shiro didn't even remember how they met. It had been a long time since he thought about the guy – hadn't thought about him since he came to the Academy. It was probably Kenta who had approached him and not the other way around: gangs liked to recruit among orphans.

Kenta had introduced him to the twilight world that was the Creek's End district, with its flashy fronts and back alleys that collected every kind of stench and bodily fluid. All the dirt and filth in society washed up there, all the broken pieces of humanity left to waste quietly away between brick walls and concrete stairs. Shiro had promised himself that was not going to be him. He embraced the filth but never the drugs – at least that was what he told himself. Addicts always tell themselves they aren't addicts. He found a different drug, one the body produced for him in infinite amounts as long as he did everything he wasn't supposed to do. Crack vending machines. Shoplift. Pick locks. Pick fights. The high was invisible and untraceable but oh-so-intoxicating as it rushed through his bloodstream and set his nerve ends on fire.

Then Kenta was hospitalised. Took a bad fall when he tried climbing the downspout during some burglary that didn't go as it should have. He died from his injuries not long after, and Shiro was left with a larger share of money than he had expected along with a reminder of the risks with his chosen occupation. The risks weren't the problem – hell, they were his reason. The problem was having no other options. The problem was that the day might come when he was trapped in this life, like Kenta in that apartment.

Shiro didn't want to take a window because all other exits were blocked. He wanted doors. Money opened doors. Education opened doors. And just like that, in a split second with no further thought, he had decided to apply to a school that would give him access to a world throw-away street punks could never dream of.

Shiro still kept it up for a couple of years – the gang connection. Partly because he craved the excitement, partly because it gave him the money he needed to open up those doors. It always came down to money. Man, all the things you could do if you had money! New place, new life, new future: True Cross Academy was far from the orphanage and the streets that had raised him. He brought a single cardboard box with him then, too, holding five years of dirty money, hell-raiser confidence, and invisible addiction.

None of that had done him much good. Here he stood again: four years later, time to pack up and start over. New place. New life.

" _New mess_ ", he added dryly.

There was a pattern to it, as much as he would like there not to be. Every time he found a new place to bury his roots he ended up digging himself a pitfall instead, and once he had fallen into it he crawled out and moved to the next spot: Shiro was well aware of that. It wasn't just shitty luck either – he was aware of that, too. There was no cosmic injustice he could conveniently blame for fucking his life up time and again. No, he managed that quite well on his own. If you are addicted to trouble and advertise for it to find you, then it will. Every time.

" _The one who keeps betraying me is me._ " Shiro finished folding his last shirt and put it in the box with the rest. The only thing left now were his trousers. " _There's always that tickling feeling in my gut and I always make up excuses to go along with it. So I will._ " __  
  
Missions, he reasoned, should be able to give him what he required. Now that they were for real they should be enough to sate his unfortunate craving for thrills: no babysitter teachers, just his own skill and adrenaline evening the odds against the Grim Reaper. That should help him keep a level head and make good calls in life outside work.

" _No different from switching one brand of cigarettes for another._ " Shiro tossed another pair of trousers into the box with a dry snort. It sounded like a plan – in theory. In theory you could also survive lung cancer, but very few actually did. He _hoped_ missions would give him the proper kick, but abstinence was something Shiro had never been good at. " _Mankind's true virtue is restraint, hah? I think the old goat said that once. Too bad I had to be the exception._ " Easy to tempt and quick to give in. " _Kinda makes you wonder…_ "

Shiro remained standing with the last pair of trousers in his hands while his thoughts wandered elsewhere. He wouldn't say he had _a lot_ in common with demons, no matter what mean tongues would whisper behind his back: just more in common than he wanted to and enough to sow doubt. Easy to tempt and quick to give in, and naturally good with demons: Sen – or Midori, he couldn't really remember – had asked him about his heritage once. He had replied that he was human through and through. He _should_ be human. There was nothing but humans in his family tree as far as he knew but then again, how much did he really know about his family? Generations back, could he really be sure there hadn't been some ancestor somewhere who had a drop of demon blood in them? He couldn't, plain and simple. Not that it would matter anyway, if it was that far back in time.

" _It won't matter either way_ ", he concluded pragmatically and tossed in the last pair of trousers. " _Demon ancestor or not I'm still stuck with my addictions and my poor restraint._ "

Ah, but it would matter, if the Vatican discovered non-human contributors to his family tree. The Italian Branch was old, and stock full of tradition, and those traditions did not accept applicants that weren't fully human. Samael had gone over the list of things he should be aware of when it came to the Italian views of demons and exorcism, in some attempt at guiding him past at least some of the pitfalls that were lying in wait for him in Rome. New place, new life, and – from what Shiro had learnt of the Roman HQ and its views – the mess was just waiting to happen.

"Done." Shiro threw some more crumpled newspaper pages in the box and deemed it ready to be sealed up.

Four years in boarding school and they fit into a single cubic metre cardboard box. Four happy, exciting years and a pitfall at the end. The box contained clothes and his stock of soap, shampoo and spare razors, the scissors he cut his hair with and his service pistol with magazines. Mostly, though, it contained books: course books, notebooks, dictionaries, scrap books. All kinds of books, though none of his porn magazines: he would be thrown out of university faster than a rat carcass if he seemed "susceptible to carnal vices".

Shiro sealed the box shut with duct tape, closing that chapter of his life with the ironic thought that the most important lessons he had learnt at that school were not from books.

Putting the tape away on the desk, he fished out a memory note from his pocket, sat down on his haunches, and uncorked a permanent marker to write the shipping address on the box. Once in Japanese and once in what Samael termed "Latin lettering by a five-year-old". _Via Umbria 15, 00187, rione Sallustiano, Roma, Italia_. Some of the Pontifical Universities offered dorms, some not. The University of Saint Thomas Aquinas had no such facilities, although they did provide students from abroad help to find accommodation. The apartment they had acquired for him on Via Umbria was intended for two, so he could expect the university to assign him a roommate sooner or later. That might complicate things, or it might not. Given the chicken shit luck he'd had with roommates so far, he would be surprised if his Roman roommate was a worse match than the ones in Japan.

There was a second cardboard box in the room, much smaller than the first and much dustier: the garbage box. Shiro had picked it up at the orphanage in town after receiving a mail notification that, since he had now come of age and all remaining ties to the orphanage were absolved, they would no longer store his belongings. Now it sat on the floor and shed dust on the freshly scrubbed floorboards, like some sullen kid that had been dragged along but didn't really want to be there. Shiro highly doubted there would be anything in there worth keeping… But you could never be sure.

That's another thing with life. What's worth keeping and what's just to throw away isn't always clear; in general, the true worth of something only shows in retrospect. What Shiro kept, and what he threw away… He didn't want to think of what he had thrown away, but he was sure it would fill more than one cardboard box.

" _Right, let's get this over with._ " Shiro sat down on his knees, cut the tape with his knife and eased the lid open. He was greeted by exactly the kind of assorted mess he had expected.

His baseball glove had been claimed as a mouse nest sometime long ago. What was left of the leather was gnawed and full of droppings that looked like little black rice grains. Shiro lifted it out with both hands and made sure not to spill anything on his clean floor. It was ridiculously small, now that he was an adult: if he spread his fingers as wide as he could it could almost have fit in his hand.

Under the glove were small things haphazardly thrown into the box. A small toy car. A whistle. A miniature hand net that he remembered crawling around in his mom's garden with, hunting for insects. Colourful drawings where you couldn't even tell if he had been trying to draw houses or cars. Under those were some kind of folded fabric. A pillow case…?

"Oh man, we kept this…?" Shiro gave a snort, smiling in disbelief as he pulled the streamer up by one end. He remembered that. It was a school project from just before the Golden Week. All children had been given plain white koinobori streamers that they could paint their own carp designs on, the idea being that they could fly them on Children's Day. Except Shiro's didn't fly much, and neither was it a carp. He had wanted to make it a dragon, but apparently he was the only one who saw that it _was_ a dragon, so he had figured out that it would be easier to see what it was if it had legs. Before his teacher could stop him he had taken a pair of scissors, laid the koinobori flat on the floor, and cut out holes in its belly. It did look like it had legs (as long as it lay flat) but the holes also made it very un-aerodynamic. His mom had still insisted on flying it next to hers and his dad's on Children's Day. It had looked like a spastic caterpillar.

Shiro folded the koinobori and put it on the floor, sniggering at his stupid child self until he saw what had been hidden under the streamer. The wave of memories that washed over him then was so intense it seemed to slow time down to a stop. At the very bottom of the box lay the most wondrous toy he had ever owned: a battery driven tin ship, as long as his lower arm. He remembered when he had gotten it, every detail of that day so clear and perfect in his mind it seemed more real than the present: it had been his Shichi-go-san, and the hakama sleeves fell down over his hands when he tore at the gift wrapping, and the _shriek_ of joy that danced throughout his body when he glimpsed the box inside and knew that it truly was the toy he had been wishing for.

Shiro mutely stroked the tin surface with his fingertips. The ship's hull had small dents here and there from where it had collided with things, but the print of wooden boards and frothing waves was in pristine condition. The cannon that sat on the bow still moved smoothly on its hinges. The treasure chest on deck, the captain at the wheel: it was all there. It was just like when he was five years old and couldn't believe his eyes.

Shiro lifted the tin ship out of the box with what was best described as reverence. The weight of it was astonishingly familiar to his fingers, as was the cool surface of the tin and the memories it held; it set off a trilling feeling in his chest, an anticipation and excitement he had almost forgotten he could feel. The masts and the sails lay under it – there had been a smaller Jolly Roger flag for the stern, he remembered, but that he had lost long ago. That wasn't important. Hell, the only thing important right now was to get his pirate ship assembled and sailing.

It was like pressing a button and enabling five-year-old mode. Grinning like an idiot and not giving a damn, Shiro fit the masts into the holes on deck and pulled the abused sails into some semblance of shape, then paused to admire his work with mischievous satisfaction. The sails looked good with tears and crinkles, too – one could always pretend the ship had sailed through a storm. Hadn't he done that when he was little? He must have exposed those poor pirates to just about any disaster you could encounter at sea: storms, monsters, naval battles, reefs, whirlpools. It had been bloody awesome.

Batteries, he needed batteries. Shiro's gaze swept the room and quickly settled on the neighbouring desk, where Saburota had his fancy digital alarm clock, but that one ran on cable electricity. He would need to raid his roommate's wardrobe for a flashlight if he wanted batteries.

Five minutes of ethically questionable rummaging later, Shiro had not found any flashlight or other battery operated device he could pillage. He stared silently at the ship, pondering if he should ask around in the corridor's other rooms or if he should accept that he wasn't going to see it sail. Then excitement kicked in again, like a dopamine shot going straight to his head, and he walked over and nudged the tin toy with his foot: it rolled just fine on its own, changing course ever so slightly when the swivel wheel at the front crossed the gaps between the floorboards. That simple thing made the dumb grin return to his face with full force. He'd fucking loved that ship.

At that moment, Shiro felt like his mind operated on swivel wheels, too. It did that kind of skip thoughts sometimes do, when they don't bother explaining the whole string of reasoning to you and just hand you the conclusion. He knew exactly what to do with his pirate ship.

Life is funny that way. What's worth keeping and what's just to throw away isn't always clear, but there are those rare times when you know. And when you know, you _know_ : not in mind but in heart.

As soon as he knew, Shiro went to work as if seized by mania. He left the trash on the floor and tilted the cardboard box on end and, after giving it a couple of slaps to make it acceptably clean, tossed in some of the remaining newspaper balls he had had for padding his overseas delivery. Once the box was properly packaged, he dissembled the pirate ship and laid its parts in it. He stopped at the mistreated sails, however. Those wouldn't do. Shiro gazed down at the naked stems of the masts. That wouldn't do, either. He needed to replace the sails somehow, but he didn't have-

Shiro lit up when the idea sprang to mind. His gut brain really was incredibly active today.

"That will be _perfect_ ", he mumbled, a smile playing on his lips as he stood and stalked over to Saburota's desk. Borrowing pen and paper he scribbled down a brief account of the treasure the pirates had found after a long and adventurous journey, and the storm they had been caught in on their way back to their secret harbour. The tempest had torn their sails and saw them stranded, so Midori and Sen would have to make new sails for them so they could sail home.

Shiro couldn't readily explain what the hell he was doing, just like he couldn't explain how the sight of that ship had made him this excited. He did know he was still riding that wave, and that it was invigorating like a horse kick in the ass. So yessir, he would give Midori and Sen the pirate ship.

" _They'll make some crazy-ass installation with it – put it on Sen's head and use her hair to make Kraken arms._ " Shiro pulled a crooked smile as he wrote down an additional note that a large seagull had flown away with the pirates' flag, but that they didn't mind that much since they were getting tired of the old design anyway: Sen and Midori should make them a new one.

Shiro was still on the nostalgic euphoria high when he used his last newspapers and tape to wrap up the gift – note inside – and in another spur-of-the-moment flash of inspiration he cut shreds out of the spastic caterpillar carp to tie a ribbon around it. The final touch would be the greeting card: and since he had a pile of colourful drawings on hand, he picked out the most peculiar one, taped it to the gift, and wrote a simple _Take good care of it_ on it.

While his creative side was at it, it decided to drop him one final idea before calling it a day. Shiro fetched himself a new note and scribbled _Clearing out my collection: take as many as you want_ , whereupon he signed it _Yaonaru Kita_ and placed it atop his stack of discarded porn magazines. With a pleasant grin, which felt very good on his face, Shiro carried the stack down to the entrance hall of the boy's dorm and selected a spot on the floor where it was impossible to miss.

Upon returning to his room, Shiro heaved a sigh of accomplishment. Looking at the bizarre hodgepodge of a present filled him with a curious feeling of satisfaction. It had been ages since he felt like this. After pondering that for a while, he decided that short bouts of spontaneous madness felt good – like being drunk in the best sense of drunk. He should do that more often.

There was one last thing to pack, after Shiro had gotten rid of the trash and vacuumed the floor again. Japan Airlines allowed him one piece of hand baggage, and that he reserved for the handful of things that were left on his desk after everything else was packed. The utility belt Kasumi had given him went in first, rolled tightly and tucked into the largest compartment of the backpack. Sen's calligraphy set joined it, resting inside a plastic bag just in case the lid slipped off and the ink stick fell out. Midori's steel wire lion, Sayuri's cigarettes, Ryuuji's cassette tapes, the scarf Kasumi made – all were swallowed by the backpack. Shiro didn't know how much one could trust overseas shipping, but this way he knew the important things would arrive in Rome safely.

The last item on the desk was a small, wooden donkey. It almost seemed deliberate, as if it had waited until there was nothing else for him to look at so it would have his full attention. The donkey was nothing special if given a quick glance: just a children's toy from some backwater village. But look closer and the skill of the craftsman would unveil itself in the knife strokes that, in spite of their crude cuts, brought out the form of the animal perfectly. Shiro could appreciate that skill, although he hadn't known what to do with the figurine except keep it as a paper weight. Even that had been a bad choice, since the weight was in the donkey's body and not its four delicate legs, which made it topple over every time Shiro bumped his desk. Shizuku would have laughed, like he had when he made that donkey. Complete with steel wire glasses and a mini cigarette. For his stupid-ass friend.

Four happy, exciting years and a pitfall at the end.

Shiro put the donkey in the backpack with the other important things.

The lacquered case with the lone baoding ball sat on Shiro's stripped bunk bed like a big, ugly spider. He hadn't wanted to set it among the other things but there was no helping it. He needed to be a hundred per cent certain that ball got to Rome with him, and so he reluctantly stashed it in the backpack next to Kasumi's belt and Sen's calligraphy set. In a last-minute flash of recollection, he took the switchblade knife out of his jacket pocket and slipped it into the suitcase where he had packed a week's worth of clothes. When he booked his flights the airport had notified him that security protocol had been tightened, following a series of plane hijackings in the US. Any potential weapon would be confiscated upon detection and the carrier fined.

Once he had disposed of the trash Shiro stretched himself out, extending his arms above his head until a confirming pop was heard from his shoulders. He let out a sigh and ran both his hands through his hair, stopping to rest behind his neck as he surveyed his work. All was cleaned. All was packed. All was addressed.

"Time for the hard part", he murmured. He borrowed a pen and a paper out of Saburota's notepad again and sat himself down at his desk.

Shiro had crumpled up half of Saburota's notepad before he had composed a letter he was satisfied with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Koinobori,** if it didn't become clear from the text, is a carp patterned streamer that is flown on Children's Day every year. Typically, it's one koinobori for each family member, though it seems like it was originally only for mother, father, and sons.
> 
>  **Masudaya** is a toy company that made lots of mechanical tin toys back in the day. The one Shiro had when he was little is this tin pirate ship that was constructed in the 1960's (couldn't find an exact date): http://masudaya.wixsite.com/masudaya/vehicles?lightbox=imageh9y
> 
>  **Shichi-go-san** is this tradition of celebrating children when they turn three (boys  & girls), five (boys), and seven (girls), thus the name shichi-go-san. Three, five, and seven used to be the milestone ages when children were allowed to grow their hair out (three), wear a hakama (five) and tie their kimonos with proper obi instead of plain cords (seven).
> 
>  **Saburota's fancy digital alarm clock** because this is 1977. It's the era when digital electronical timepieces boomed: all that stuff we label vintage now was top notch modern when Shiro was young.
> 
>  **Shiro's bout of spontaneous madness** is one of those things that just happened without me intending it from the beginning. When it comes to writing I have accepted that my subconscious does a much better job than I do, so the bout stayed. In retrospect I think I can guess what my subconscious was thinking.
> 
> I believe the adult Shiro was one of those goofy dads. He had a serious side but he also knew the importance of being spontaneous and doing shit just for the fun of it. I see it in the way he jokes with Rin and I see it in the look on his face when he's amused that Yukio is so angry at Shura that he hisses out "shit" when he thinks nobody hears him. (There is also this hilarious illustration in Bloody Fairy Tale where the twins are small, Yukio has wet his bed after a nightmare, and Shiro is holding up the soiled bedsheet and grinning like an idiot.) Daddy-Shiro does weird stuff that is embarrassing to his kids while it's somehow also an endearing dad thing. I think that what my subconscious wanted with this spontaneous madness bout was to show where the goofiness comes from. Shiro is a prankster and an instigator at heart, and when he's in a good mood (like when he rediscovers his favourite childhood toy) that part of him finds fuel. It has been a while since he was in touch with that part so I can see how this was refreshing for him.


	84. When the cicadas cry

Summer holidays were an unknown concept to exorcist students. A cram school is only ever a cram school, and summer courses were a regular feature where valuable extra hours were added to their education. There was a fair deal of grumbling about this. Students like to tell themselves that once they graduate life will be a lot easier, which of course is just delusion. Once they had obtained their licenses there would be no more summer courses, but neither would there be any summer uniforms. No more comfy short-sleeved shirts to ease the humid heat, just the heavy, all-covering fucking _black_ exorcist robes.

Shiro was so glad he was dressed casually for the journey.

The 17th of June was too early for the really high temperatures. The warmth was pleasant on the skin without clinging to it with that sticky humid film that came about around July. The smell of sun-baked asphalt was in the air and thrummed with the song of cicadas. Campus was practically deserted after all the regular students had gone home over summer, and it was a pleasant stroll that took Shiro from the boys' dorm to the girls'. There _were_ people around, of course: summer was the busiest time of year for the platoon of janitors that kept the school tidy. Hedges had to be tamed, lawns groomed, benches oiled, and barrels of pesticides used to combat the weeds that stubbornly cropped up between stone tiles. There were uniformed men at work in every flower bed, and when they spotted him they waved. Shiro hefted the cardboard box onto one arm to wave back.

"Not gonna help us this year, Fujimoto-san?" called one Shiro remembered well: Okada-san, a talkative man in his forties whose wife made the most delicious-looking lunches.

"Nope – leaving today."

"That so? Vacation?" Okada was standing up and slapping the dirt off his gardening gloves now.

"Nah, moving. I'm gonna be staying in Italy for a while. Get some field experience, maybe grab another exorcist Meister or two."

"If it's field experience you want, it's us you should work with." Okada had another favourite pastime, aside talking: cracking terrible puns. The rest of the janitors politely pretended they hadn't heard anything while the man himself chortled heartily at his own joke. "My son wanted to go abroad when he was younger, too, after he finished school. But I said to him: 'Naoto, if you want to go abroad you would have to go to school another two years and learn foreign languages. Or wait till people abroad learn Japanese, whichever you think will go faster.' The last thing he wanted was to spend more years in school, so-"

"Okada-san." The foreman of the janitors had three main tasks to perform: take instructions from the manager above him, coordinate his team, and keep Okada focused on his job. The last thing was a routine everybody was familiar with, and Shiro smiled when Okada bowed and apologised for the interruption.

"Well, good luck in Italy, Fujimoto-san", he said, waved, and squatted down to continue weeding.

"Good luck to you here, too." Shiro gave the team a nod and continued on his way to the girls' dorm.

* * *

Sen was hanging laundry when he knocked. That or she and Midori had been engaged in some private fun-time, because nothing else could explain why she had a lacy blue bra slung over her shoulder when she answered the door. She was fully dressed, but knowing what an odd pair those two were Shiro decided it was better not to take any risks.

"Hi. You guys busy with something?"

"No. But, weren't you leaving today, Shiro-kun?"

"I'm about to. Just have a couple of things to take care of before I do. Can I come in?"

Sen didn't answer that, only opened up the door fully and stepped aside to let him through. Shiro stepped out of his shoes and wedged himself and the cardboard box sideways into the very special room that belonged to Midori and Sen. The doll head still served as lamp screen. There was still an assortment of flotsam treasures lining the window sill and walls, although the ones on the window sill had been moved to the table to open the window. Midori's sleeping space was still a tangled nest of sheets on the floor. A short bit away from it, backed up against the wall, sat a basket with unsorted laundry. On Sen's desk gaped an empty pastry carton, suggesting that Midori had indeed landed the summer job in the bakery.

"Is that box one of the things you need to take care of?" Sen followed him with her eyes as he put the gift down on the floor.

"Yep. I'm dumping it on you as a parting gift." Shiro placed the letter on top and was about to turn and ask where Midori was, when he spotted something that hadn't been in the room last time he visited.

The vacant bed had been transformed into a miniature village. Houses huddled together around a small town square, assembled from all kinds of twigs, pine cones, chestnuts and walnut shells. Midori had continued to explore the possibilities of her steel wire, too, and had built little people to populate the village as well as fanciful trees with dried berries and plastic pearls strung up on their branches. Shiro was about to compliment the project when something hit him in the back of his head and wrapped itself around his face. Something soft and flappy and fabric-like.

The object turned out to be a school uniform vest, once Shiro had removed it from his head. He also dodged just in time to avoid a rolled-up pair of socks that came whooshing in through the open window. The sock roll bounced off the wall and landed a scarce decimetre to the left of the laundry basket.

"I'm gonna miss you guys and your crazy shit so badly." With a lopsided smile, Shiro dropped the vest off in the laundry basket and bent down to help the sock roll join it. "Shortest route to take in the laundry from the roof?"

"Yes. That, and Sir Pheles didn't permit Midori to join the school basketball team", Sen clarified as she folded the bra and laid it neatly in its proper drawer. She lingered a moment then, fingers resting lightly on the edge of the open drawer. "I knew he wouldn't. Gehenna and Assiah must be kept separate: that is the purpose of the Order. To keep the truth secret. To keep the worlds apart." She turned around, and Shiro wondered – not for the first time – just how deep into those empty, reddish eyes you would have to reach to understand the entity that was Sen. "But what about the ones that are in between?"

In between the worlds? Yeah, what about them… People like Midori and Ryuuji, where did they fit in? Shiro hadn't expected a light talk to turn heavy so quickly and needed a moment to get his thoughts on the same track as Sen's. Time was never an issue with that girl, fortunately. She would be quiet and still as an owl and just wait.

"I guess some can fit in without much effort, like Ryuuji-san. I'm not talking about the ears and tail and that; I mean he's been raised human and is very human in how he thinks. I haven't asked him but if I did I'm pretty sure he'd say he thinks of himself as human."

But would others? Shiro's brow furrowed at the thought, and the long-standing habit of nibbling the tip of his tongue made itself known. Ryuuji would say that Assiah was his home and that he belonged among humans, no doubt. Not all would agree with him. Not all would agree he had the same status – or rights – as pureblood humans. And Midori, who had retained much more of a demon's nature than Ryuuji? Shiro honestly didn't know where she felt she belonged, but he was fairly certain which category others would put her in.

"It's not just about how part-demons identify themselves – I know that. It's just as much about how everyone else views them, if not even more", he continued, leaning back against the wall and crossing his arms over his chest. Sen remained before her drawers, still like a model before a painter, and watched him. No nod, no hum or huff to indicate what she thought of his ruminations. No nothing.

Shiro took that as his cue to continue.

"I can agree with the Order's ideas somewhat; Assiah as it is isn't prepared to know about Gehenna or that there are part-demons walking about." He tilted his head to the side, as if physically looking at the matter from a different angle. "At the same time, putting a lid on it isn't gonna make anything improve for those who are stuck in between. Just perpetuate a bad situation." He huffed, thinking of what Samael had told him during his preparations for Rome. "The Vatican stance is pretty much just 'ignore the problem till it goes away'. Maybe they believe that if we just keep demons out entirely there'll be no more half-bloods born and the ones we have will eventually die off." So with one party unaware of their existence and the other ignoring their existence, where could part-demons turn? Shiro sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. It was a complex situation – if it was easy it would have been solved long ago. "I don't know if you were actually asking me a question and expecting an answer. I don't have one. The best solution – that isn't even a solution – would be if in-between people got together and founded their own in-between place. Like the Futotsuki clan's village. Some place where they can play basketball and do whatever they want without worrying about freaking people out."

Another laundry ball came hurling in through the window. Shiro caught it on reflex: it was a pair of panties. He stared at them. The teddy bear face at the front stared back.

"It is the same conclusion I came to." A perfectly untroubled Sen padded over and picked the garment out of his hands. It was the first time _Shiro_ had been the one feeling awkward about a girl flashing her panties. "A society apart from society. A sanctuary." She brought the panties with her to the drawers, folding them with an almost ritual meticulousness. "That would be the easiest." Again, she stopped: hands still and eyes staring into the wall as if the answers she was looking for were written on it. "But is the easiest way the best way?" she mused softly as she laid the underwear to rest. "Have you heard the cicadas?"

"It's hard not to." You could hear them in the very room, even: that's how loud the summer chorus was. Not knowing where Sen was going with this, he decided to make himself comfortable on the floor. He sprawled himself sloppily against the wall, one leg straight and the other drawn up at a comfortable angle so he could rest his arm on it.

"Cicadas used to live above ground, long ago. They flew like birds and sang each other songs like birds. But they were not birds, and they were hunted and eaten." There was none of Midori's pantomime features when Sen told stories. The dreamy quality of her voice made her good at it, however. It made her sound like she was recalling memories from many, many years ago. "Eventually the cicadas decided to move underground to live in peace. They did, and they were safe, but they were not free. They were not happy. They did not fly or sing underground, and they were lonely. After years and years they could no longer stand it and returned to the world above. Sooner or later, all cicadas return. It is only then that they fly and sing to each other." Sen turned away from the drawers to look directly at him. "It isn't much to ask, to have the same freedom as everyone else."

Allegories are useful things. When words fall short, or when abstract thought must be given concrete shape, allegory replaces words with images. Shiro saw what she meant, but still… In his mind Sen had been a dreamy girl living in her own world, not minding much what happened outside it – and maybe she had been, but she wasn't anymore. She had changed while he had been absorbed in studies. They all had. Matured. Grown. Become people slightly different – or very different – from who they had been when they first came together. There was determination in her posture now, as if her spine was made of railway iron. She would bend at nothing to see her ambitions achieved; he could see it in her gaze when their eyes met.

Their eerie, reddish eyes.

Shiro's had begun to change after he hosted Samael's heart. They had been brown before. Had held the faintest trace of a different hue in bright light, yes, but they had definitely been brown. Now, for the first time, he wondered if maybe Sen's eyes had been brown, too, once. He wondered what she had been like, before she bonded with her goblin.

…wondered how much like her he might become.

"I always wondered why you joined the Order when you clearly don't sympathise with how they do things", he found himself musing, just loud enough to be heard above the cicada choir. "You're gonna make them change, hah?"

"I hope so. The world can't stay ignorant forever."

Shiro blinked. Had he heard that right? Moreover, had he understood that right?

"The world? Not just the Order?"

"The Order won't be enough." Sen spoke as if lost in thought, or as if she was speaking more to herself than to him. "It claims to protect people, but what it does is imprison them. The world is living a lie: no one is free so long as that lie persists."

Ever so slightly, Shiro's eyebrows twitched. Those words. To know the truth; to be free…

"Well sometimes a pretty lie is better than a nasty truth – not often, but someti-"

"Better for whom?" she cut in, and there were edges to her voice that would bury deep if he implied the wrong things. "Does the right to freedom belong only to the majority?"

"That's not what I meant." Sen had no idea what he meant. Sen hadn't been there, late at night in the New Graveyard with the harsh freedom that came with knowing the truth. "Of course half-bloods should have the same freedom humans have – what I'm questioning is how that's gonna come about. You think things will change for the better if the world finds out about demons but what says it won't get worse? What if society can't handle the knowledge and we get a witch scare like in the Middle Ages? Half-bloods might end up getting more marginalised than they already are." Shiro hauled himself up from the floor. Couldn't sit down in an argument. On second thought… he didn't want his last visit to his friends ending with an argument, either. Biting back any further opinions he might have had to share on the topic, he opted for a compromise: "It's too big, is what I'm saying. Go for changing the Order, sure – they need that. But don't waste time chasing dreams that might just be smoke and mirrors."

He dodged on reflex when a bundled-up shirt came flying in through the window. The motion brought him closer to Sen, who… was laughing? She was covering her mouth with her hand, and there was an unmistakable trembling in her shoulders. But why would she laugh?

"What?" he said guardedly, eyebrows pulling together in a frown.

"It is funny, when a man of faith doesn't know how to believe. Here." She brought her small, chubby hand up, hovering millimetres above his chest without touching him. "Everything begins here. Before anything can change, we have to believe it can. We have to believe we win something greater than what we sacrifice." Instead of touching him, she touched the badge hanging from his shirt pocket. Whether he was wearing the black robes or not, he was an exorcist; an exorcist's duties follow him wherever he goes, and so does his badge and license. "Congratulations, Lower Second Class Fujimoto-senpai."

Shiro blinked: it was the first time he was referred to by rank. He pulled a face immediately after.

"Seriously, don't call me that. It's freaky."

His reaction put a smile on Sen's lips, and her hand moved from his badge to cover it. The smile never reached her eyes, however, and he wondered once again how much of his own reflection there was in her. Did his smile reach his eyes?

"My battles are for me. And yours are for you."

Shiro blinked. What did she mean by that? Did it mean anything? Was there something she knew, or was his paranoia making him see things that weren't there?

"What was the Aria exam like?"

It was like she was playing marbles with his thoughts, knocking them this-way-and-that with her sudden topic changes. But when he thought about it, Sen would be taking the Aria exam next year. And there were more similarities between them than just their eyes: only following rules when it suited them was one of those things.

"For future reference?" he asked with a crooked grin. Sen smiled sagely, tipping her head forward ever so slightly and peered up at him with a knowing look. Yes, she was planning on passing her exams next year. "It was pretty fun. I don't know if it'll be the same next year but my exam consisted of playing karuta." As absurd as that statement was, Sen showed no reaction whatsoever. "Not regular karuta: demon karuta", he elaborated, still hoping for a reaction because _he_ had found it unexpected as hell. "You had these enchanted cards that had summoning circles and seals respectively, and then you had to pair them up right before the card finished its chant and summoned a demon."

Sen showed no indication that she was following what he said, although she was listening intently – at least he assumed so, as she kept owl-staring at him even though there was no reaction whatsoever to anything he said.

"It wasn't too hard. Stressful, but not hard if you just keep your head cool. I did well for the first three quarters of the game: then came a chant where I couldn't even place the language."

Maybe she was just messing with him? Like she was stone-walling him with that distant gaze on purpose to see how long she could keep him going?

"I panicked for maybe a second there. Then I snapped out of it and went by method of exclusion: if there was a seal I didn't recognise then that should be the one matching the chant I didn't recognise." He paused, more for effect than out of any real hope that Sen would ask how it went. "I found the right one, but I took too long spotting it so the demon was summoned from the card."

…okay, when she didn't so much as pull an eyebrow at _that_ , Shiro decided it was a challenge. He could mess with people, too. Especially when they reminded him of things about himself he didn't want to remember.

"Luckily I had my gun handy and killed it before it could do any harm."

Sen's detached eyes came alive in an instant. They flared up, then hardened like steel and spread the tension across her face and all the way down to her shoulders.

"Finally got a rise out of ya", he smirked. "I'm joking, Sen-chan. I didn't have any gun and I didn't kill any demon. I just tore up the card with the summoning circle: the game continued after the demon was exorcised."

Sen scrutinised him intensely, and Shiro wondered if maybe he had gone too far with that joke. She remembered their Esquire exam, surely. She remembered the naga he killed. Did she think he would kill a bound demon again, if he was ordered to?

Well… He could.

"I didn't", he repeated, emphasising by bringing his hand up to his chest. "On my honour as a man, I didn't. All I did was tear up the card."

Sen visibly relaxed, and the steel seeped out of her eyes.

"It puzzles me how you passed when you didn't know the chant", she said without missing a beat. "You destroyed their examination equipment, too. Is that not against the rules?"

"Evidently not." Shiro shrugged. There and then he hadn't even thought about it. "The point is that you get the job done, not how." Hah – his cram school teachers would have had a few things to say about that. "Though I guess if you apply that solution to every card in the deck they'll assume your Aria skills suck."

"What chant was it that you didn't recognise?"

Shiro snorted good-naturedly at that. Didn't have any qualms at all about passing her exams, did she? They had a thing or two in common, alright.

"Tibetan. It summoned a girimekhala."

"Slaaaaaaaam duuuuuunk!"

That, was the only heads-up they were given before Midori came swinging in through the open window at the end of a rope. She let go with perfect timing, sailed across the room, and slammed a bundled shirt down in the laundry basket before making contact with the floor.

She was so damn hot. Not only was she wearing the shortest mini-shorts Shiro had ever laid eyes on, but the tiniest belly-flaunting tank top ever made – and no bra. Shiro's conscience made an effort to mentally slap him for staring, with marginal success. As if she wasn't indecent enough already, Midori was showing her tail. Shiro had seen it once, when he came upon her bathing in the creek in the forest, but only when it was wet and when he was without glasses. Now that he saw it properly it was simply beautiful. It was as red as her hair, just like he had imagined, and it was long and fluffy like a proper fox tail. And when she moved – god, when she _moved_ – it followed her motions with an effortless sensuality that simply blew his mind. All girls should have tails.

"I'm almost jealous, Sen-chan."

"You should be."

At that, Shiro had to do a double-take, and was met with a look he would have categorised as smugging if only Sen had had more animated facial expressions.

"Congratulations, Lower Second Class Fujimoto-senpai", Midori beamed. She had heard their talk through the window, no doubt. "What is this, hm~? A present?" She tip-toed over to the box and scrutinised it from all angles with great interest: the curling motions of her tail said so.

"Farewell gift. It's just something I found when I was clearing out my stuff. I can't take it with me and I figure it should stay with people who'll have fun with it. …how do you even hide that normally?" He gestured at her. "Your tail. It's huge."

Midori ceased her inspection of the present and straightened up, looking at him with surprise on her face. Then she looked at Sen, and must have sent some sort of telepathic message because Sen knew immediately what she meant. The Futotsuki girl searched the cluttered desk for a moment and handed Midori one of the ribbons she used for tying her hair.

"Is easier to focus if you have an anchor", she explained, and held the embroidered, green ribbon out between her thumb and forefinger. What happened next looked like some form of simplified ritual. With her free hand Midori pinched the ribbon between her fingers and ran them down the length of it. This she repeated, again and again, with a look of intense concentration. Once satisfied, she reached behind her back and gently tied the ribbon around the base of her-  
  
There was a puff of smoke, almost like when Samael used his magic, and when it cleared Midori had no tail. The only "tail" on her was the long braid of hair from her neck, and it was tied with the same ribbon she had put around her real tail a moment ago.

"All kitsune illusion", she smiled and spun a casual pirouette to show off her altered looks. "But I like no illusion better." Midori pulled the ribbon off, and when the puff of smoke cleared she had a tail again. "Not having tail is like not having eyebrows", she said and performed a show-reel of facial expressions from angry to confused to happy. All of them included very much eyebrow exercise.

Shiro had never thought of it like that. It was with great fascination he eyed the tail – and felt like he had yet another thing to be jealous of.

"Why do demons always get all the cool stuff? But, what I was gonna say: I have a taxi to catch, so I was just going to come over and drop this off. And this, too." Shiro fished the envelope out of his pocket and held it out to Sen. The letter inside was written entirely in hiragana. "This is for Kasumi, next time she drops by. Since I won't be seeing her today. Don't forget to give it to her, okay?"

"We won't." Sen bowed and accepted the letter with both hands. "Safe trip, Shiro-kun. Don't forget to write."

"Yeah, I wi-guhh…!"

Midori's hug squeezed the air right out of him. Shiro returned it awkwardly, locked as he was and only able to move his arms from the elbow and down. There was a thin, soft coating of fur on her naked back. She was warm, and underneath his fingers he could feel the muscles move as her tail made agitated little flicks.

Shiro's conscience could punch and kick him all it liked, he still tingled from head to toe at the surge of heat that shot through his groin.

"No goodbyes", she murmured softly to his ear. "Promise."

"I promise. No goodbyes", he smiled, even though she couldn't see it. A different kind of warmth coursed through him now, one he wanted to absorb and keep and remember.

Midori slipped out of the hug, but she didn't let go. She grasped his upper arms and held him in place so she could level a very, very serious gaze at him. Shiro tried his best to keep a straight face through her scrutiny. Shit, did he smell of pheromones already…?

"I want postcards of goats in trees."

"What?" His face was one big question mark. "Goats climb trees in Italy…?"

Midori nodded vigorously. Goats climbed trees in Italy and that was something she _had_ to see – her eyes were positively glowing with excitement. Shiro chuckled warmly despite the faint ache in his chest. He _would_ miss these people. He would _miss_ people.

Indeed, they were all different now from who they had been when they first came together.

"Alright: goats in trees it is."

* * *

The taxi ride to True Cross Airport went by quickly. Actually, everything that day seemed to be moving very quickly, or maybe Shiro was just preoccupied and slow to keep up. Now, as he walked towards the sliding doors of the airport – backpack in one hand and suitcase in the other – he was a knot of thoughts chasing each other's tails. New place. New start. New people who didn't know him or his reputation. All he had to do was make the best out of the opportunity and not make a mess.

Shouldering his backpack, Shiro padded across the squeaky clean floor, head turning left and right to spot the sign for domestic flights to Tokyo's Haneda Airport. It wasn't like the time he had flown with Samael's private jet, but it was still incredibly smooth. He found the right counter, checked his suitcase in, showed his passport and visa and received his boarding passes – both the True Cross-Haneda stretch and the Haneda-Fiumicino stretch –, and followed the signs to the gate number that was stamped on the boarding pass. It didn't quite agree with him, being herded around by directions on signs. It made him feel like sheep, or some overly intelligent lab rat that was instructed to clear a maze. Shops and waiting halls, doorways, glass windows, secure spots behind pillars – his eyes jumped this-way-and-that, scanning the environment. Mapping out where surprises might come from and where he could take cover if they did. An exorcist thing.

The advertisements were everywhere: on pillars, beams, and walls. Shiro approximated that at least half of them were for the True Cross Academy centennial next year. The posters promised the greatest musicians from all across Japan, dance performances, a circus set up in Mepphy Land, fireworks, food stalls serving dishes from all over the world – the lot. There would even be an outdoors cinema, like the ones they had in the United States, with a projector showing film on one of the Academy's towering walls. Midori would no doubt try to eat her way through every single food stall. Ryuuji would be glued to the stage with the performers – if he wasn't on stage himself. There was so much Shiro wouldn't be part of, in his new place with his new start.

He tore his eyes away from the posters and shook his head. He was supposed to think about the good sides. Not about everything he would miss.

" _I might be back in time for the centennial_ ", he mused to himself. One could always hope, right? " _It all depends on how fast we can spring the trap on Tanzi._ "

No matter how much he focused on thinking of good opportunities, the bottom line remained carved in stone: he went to Rome as an undercover assassin. He was going to do the very same thing Agari and her team had done when they came to True Cross Academy. If he screwed up, he would meet the same end, too.

" _I'm so good at positive thinking._ "

* * *

Flying in a regular passenger plane was nothing like flying in Samael's private jet. There was no real leg space (although there were very pretty stewardesses) and for the first time Shiro realised how very _dangerous_ flying was. The wrong kind of dangerous, at that. He could enjoy fun-and-dangerous, a lot more than he should, but this sitting-on-your-ass-and-watching-everything-go-to-hell-with-nothing-to-be-done-about-it kind of dangerous had far less appeal.

The stewardesses went over the procedures for what to do in case of drop in cabin pressure, in case of emergency landing in water and on land, where the emergency exits were and how to open them. For some that might be reassuring. All Shiro could think of was how many plane accidents he had seen on the news just the year before. The exact number of survivors in those accident eluded him but a twisting feeling in his gut attested it hadn't been reassuring at all. The instructions the stewardess was explaining didn't make him feel the least bit better either: bracing himself against the seat in front of him didn't seem like it would do much good if the plane went into the ground at 800 km/h.

It was a very long half-hour flight to Haneda Airport. On top of it all Shiro discovered that the motion sickness he had developed due to Samael's goddamn teleportations did not exclude air planes, and it took a considerable amount of willpower not to throw up in his neighbour's lap. Not until the plane had taxied all the way to the domestic arrivals gate did Shiro relax, and when he did it felt like his whole body went slack. Disembarking the plane with the rest of the passengers, he wondered just how the shit he was going to survive the thirteen hours from Haneda to Rome's Fiumicino Airport.

Haneda Airport was _a lot_ bigger than True Cross'. Once Shiro had calmed his stomach, he loitered around exploring it to pass the time until his next flight: he had plenty of time, after all. The operative word being _had_ , because when he checked his wristwatch again two hours had somehow become twenty minutes.

Fuck Samael and his fucking deal. Dyslexia was far less hazardous than missing your plane 'cause you didn't have any sense of time.

He wasn't even in the right goddamn terminal, it turned out. Airport personnel informed him that he was in the domestic flights terminal and that his flight was in the international flights terminal, and that he should get his ass on the shuttle bus as quickly as possible if he didn't want to miss his plane.

The shuttle bus did nothing for Shiro's stomach. He could have sworn the driver had some kind of undiagnosed double vision problem because the man kept making turns to avoid obstacles that weren't there. Shiro's eyes darted between the airfield and his wristwatch, teeth nipping nervously at the tip of his tongue. He was considering stopping the bus and running the last bit on foot when finally they arrived at the right terminal. Shiro rushed past shops and zigzagged between slow moving passengers, heading wherever the signs pointed him. He would make it, just with very little margin.

"Fuji?"

Shiro's feet slowed almost to a stop. But no, he couldn't have heard right. It was someone who just sounded similar to Kasumi and was calling for her kid or something. He picked up pace again: he had a plane to catch.

"Don't ya dare ignore me!"

Shiro stopped dead in his tracks, turned around, and just stared. It took him several moments to verify that it really was Kasumi who came storming at him from the airport bathrooms, because his eyes and his brain didn't agree with each other. She couldn't be there, his brain claimed, while his eyes insisted that yes, she was there. She was there and she had a face smooth like peach skin and her eyes were nailing him in place where he stood.

"How did you get here?" his mouth asked, but his eyes had already found the answer: there was something in Kasumi's hand that shouldn't be there.

"I used the key and what the fuck's goin' on? What's happened ta my face?"

Shiro might have answered if he hadn't been blacking out wondering the exact same thing. Kasumi's face wasn't supposed to change until after he had left Japan. Kasumi wasn't supposed to have a magic key. Nothing was making sense and his brain was grappling madly for anything that did.

"You weren't supposed to be here", he murmured, completely unaware that he was speaking his thoughts out loud.

Kasumi did the only sensible thing to do when given such a reply: she smacked him across the face. Hard. He deserved it – part of him knew he deserved it more than well, while the rest of his brain cared only about the key that Kasumi shouldn't be holding. It was one of the Order's keys. Except the Order's keys didn't connect to airport toilets and weren't given to non-Order exorcists.

" _You_ weren't supposed ta form a contract! Ya promised me ya wouldn't!"

"I wasn't going to, I just wanted to set things ri-"

"Did ya ever stop ta think what _I_ wanted?! Did I _ask_ fe' this?!" One moment he was sure she raised her hand to hit him again, but no. She touched her own cheek: touched it like she was more disgusted by the flawless skin than she had been by the glaring scar tissue. "Demon deals are a slipp'ry slope ta hell an' _you_ of all people should know that! Ye're cancelling that deal _right this moment_ , Fuji! Or so help me I'll cut my face off mese-"

"I can't, Kasumi, please hear me out, I _can't_."

"Of course ya fucking can!"

Kasumi was every bit Shizuku's sister when she was angry. A thumbnail tempest not giving two shits if she was yelling so the whole airport hall could hear. She gestured with her whole body, arms sweeping and hands alternating between clenching and unclenching the air.

"I can't", he urged her – pleaded her – to understand. "I bail out of this contract and my soul goes to him."

Shiro could just as well have hit her: one of those open handed hits across the face that don't really injure, just… _hurt_. Her eyes went dull, her mouth silent, the tempest stilled. Shocked. Uncomprehending.

"Just…" Shiro's voice wanted to waver, but it was too late for that. It was too late for everything. "Let me go and fulfil my end of the deal and we never have to think about this again. There's a letter Midori and Sen-chan should- It's an awful thing to do and I never wanted it to go this far but-"  
_  
"Your attention, please. Mr. Fujimoto Shiro is requested to please check in at gate 113, flight JAL3963 to Rome."_

Shiro's head flicked towards the speakers that announced his name in the hallway. When he turned back, Kasumi had gone ghost white. Not chalk white: ghost white. As if all life had drained out of her – from her skin, from her eyes – and taken her fighting spirit with it. It was eerily quiet, after all that heated shouting. Quiet as if the pressure in the air had risen and burst their lungs apart. Quiet in a way that, when she spoke again, it made her voice ring hollow like a dead tree.

"What is yer end o' the deal, Fuji…?" She didn't want to know. But she needed to. Shiro could see her brace herself for his reply. "What are ya really going ta Rome for?"

"That's between him and me", he said softly. "Look, I don't have the time, and-"

Like a dead tree struck by lightning. Kasumi was roiling thunder, her eyes were swirling black, and there was nothing ghostly or hollow about it when she grabbed his shirt and shook him with all the force she had.

"Then use yer _fuckin'_ time right fuckin' _now_ or I'll make that between Pheles an' my _fist_!" she snarled through bared teeth. "Explain ta me! Tell me what tha fuck it is ya think ye're doing!"

Realisation hit him like a sledgehammer. Everything was clear. Everything was clear and sharp like steel strings sawing through his lungs. Samael had arranged for Kasumi to come here. Samael knew she would be furious. He knew Kasumi would seek out the only other person who held the answers Shiro wouldn't give.

"No, you-" Shiro placed his hands over hers, squeezing them to stress how important this was. His eyes darted down the hall, to the gate sign reading 113 a mere hundred metres away. "Kasumi, you _don't_ go to Mephisto about this, whatever you do you _don't_ ; trust me, and don't contact me in Rome-"

"Trust you?! After what- I _trusted_ you ya lying piece o' shit!" She shook him violently, trying to rid her hands of his. She was crying. Tears glittered on her cheeks and in her eyelashes but she didn't even seem to notice. "In spite 'o everything Shizzy said I decided I'd trust ya and then ya go an' do _this_?!"

"Please, just _listen_ : you have to-" If time would just stop, if he could just make this stop before everything went wrong, if the situation just wouldn't slip like water between his fingers-

"I trusted ya'd love me even if I was ugly!"

"I _do_ love you! That's why I'm doing this! You gotta trust me on this, you gotta promise me you _don't_ go to Mephisto!"

"Why?! What did he do te ya?! What the fuck ya mean 'don't contact ya in Rome'?!" The fists that held his shirt yanked so hard he almost lost his balance. "If ya want me ta trust ya ye're gonna start giving me some fuckin' _answers_ Fuji!"  
_  
"Attention please. This is the last call for flight JAL3963 to Rome. Passengers that have not boarded are requested to go to gate 113 immediately. This is the last call for flight JAL3963 to Rome."_

"Read the letter. Goodbye Kasumi", he breathed… tore out of her grasp…

…and ran.

"Fu- Wait dammit! FUJI!"

He didn't have Kasumi's stamina. What he did have was a demon's strength, and he poured it into his legs and cleared those hundred metres at times that could have landed him a slot in the nationals. He entered the gate with one last glance over his shoulder to see Kasumi grappling with airport security when she tried to force her way through.

The flight from Japan to Rome was the worst thirteen hours of Shiro's life.

He was empty. In every way the word could be applied. The motion sickness kept him retching in a bag until there was nothing left in his stomach to throw up. His fellow passengers were less than happy but he didn't give a damn. He chain smoked his way through all three cartons he had brought onto the plane and only that indistinct sense of connection to Sayuri kept him from lighting up her cigarettes too. He needed to shoot something. He needed to work out. He needed so many things that crawled around in his gut and under his skin that he kept the seatbelt on only to keep himself from doing laps in the plane aisles. But most of all, more than anything, he was empty.

He had fucked up _everything_.

There was a neurotic mantra churning in his head, thirteen hours on repeat like an auto-induced brainwashing programme. Get off the plane. Get his luggage. Find a phone. Call- Shit, Kasumi didn't have an address, let alone a phone number. Shizuku would slaughter him verbally if he called the boys' dorm. Sen and Midori would do. It wouldn't be pleasant to explain to them why they had to tell Kasumi not to visit Samael but- Fuck, the time difference. The flight itself took thirteen hours, and he departed at about three in the afternoon, and the difference in time between Italy and Japan was… Screw the mathematics. If they didn't pick up he'd call later.

* * *

When the plane finally landed – bless every kami in every shrine from Hokkaido to Okinawa – Shiro barely understood speech anymore. He had been awake for 22 hours, had fasted for 16, and the only word still in his throbbing brain's dictionary was "telephone". He had to find a telephone. He had to make a call. He had to dredge up enough words to tell Midori – or Sen – what he needed them to do. But before that, he had to make out what the exit stewardess was saying to him. And stop swaying in the plane aisle.

Something about being well. That couldn't be right. He was as far from well as a human being could be, so he tried to listen in again because clearly he must have heard her wrong through the static in his head.

Something about dehydration. He remembered studying that. It was bad. The symptoms and effects he couldn't remember, but it was definitely bad, and it arose from losing excessive amounts of fluids and not drinking enough water.

The stewardess was holding forth a plastic cup to him. Shiro blinked and tried to focus. There was water in it. It still took him a moment to remember which hand he was holding his backpack in and which hand was free to accept the cup. He emptied it in one sweep. The only thing it did was to alert him to how badly his body needed water right now. And food. And a phone.

"Thanks", he slurred – which language he spoke was anyone's guess. He staggered off the plane: plastic cup in one hand, backpack in the other, and head swimming without life vest. The oily plastic smell of the disembarking corridor didn't make things better: his stomach clenched miserably but couldn't quite muster up the strength to retch again. Shiro stopped, leaning against the wall to let other passengers pass, waiting until he felt moderately steady. Then he began dragging himself towards the baggage reclaim.

It was a quarter to eight p.m. local time. Shiro's wristwatch was nearing four a.m. in Japan. It was only when he checked the time that he realised he was still holding that plastic cup. How he had managed to hold on to that, while simultaneously shouldering his backpack and picking up his suitcase, was a mystery. He discarded it in a trash bin and double-checked that he still had the suitcase, then sleepwalked his way to the information desk to ask directions to the closest payphones. The latter had their own corner near the exit, where units were mounted side by side on the walls and separated by minuscule glass screens that seemed to fill a mostly symbolic function in terms of privacy.

Shiro set his suitcase down and squinted at the prices printed on the phone. He fished the wallet out of his pocket and squinted some more to read the chart with country codes above the unit. +81 for calls to "Giappone". Good thing there were flags next to the codes, otherwise he would've missed it.

Nobody picked up at the girls' dorm. He tried calling the number twice, but the signal was never answered and the payphone returned his lire to him. He tried once at the boys' dorm, too, but no luck. Hanging up the phone, Shiro stared at the machine for the longest time. He turned the Italian lire over in his hand, looking at the stamped images and pondering his last option.

He should. He just really didn't want to.

" _Laurel head and I call, lady with mohawk helmet and I don't call._ " He was too tired to make decisions: might as well leave it up to Hazard. Shiro singled out the 100 lire coin, flipped it, caught it, and slapped it down on the back of his hand. Laurel head. " _Fuck you, Lady Chance's drunk cousin._ "

Shiro slipped the coins into the machine before hesitation caught up with him and dialled the number to the one person who could be expected to be up at four in the morning. The receiver crackled and buzzed, and after what seemed like an eternity there came a faint voice from the other end.

"Guten Tag~ Johann Faust the fourth speaking."

The pleasantly cheerful greeting brought Shiro out of his fatigued stupor faster than any smelling salt. His jaw clenched, his eyes narrowed, and he was fully awake within a tenth of a second.

"Cut the crap. Why did you breach the contract?"

Kasumi's face wouldn't return to normal until after he left Japan: they had both been clear on that. Yet the magic had set in prematurely, which should mean that Shiro was absolved from his end of the deal. That made no sense, no matter how long Shiro was given to think about it during the time it took for the phone signal to reach the other end.

"Good morning, Shiro!" The voice crackled with enthusiasm over the line. "Or evening for you, I suppose. Did the flight go well?"

If the flight went well? To ensure that Samael knew exactly what he thought of that disgusting chipperness, and release some of the fuming rage that rose inside him, Shiro unleashed every curse and foul word he knew in every language he spoke. Or almost spoke.

"My, how creative: I've never heard anyone insult a dress like that." The reply was calm. Superior. In control. Shiro _hated_ it. Everything bad about Samael condensed in that tone; that condescending arrogance, that nonchalant belittlement, that complete and utterly flippant dismissal of other people's feelings and value.

Shiro slammed a fist into the undersized glass screen hard enough to make it rattle.

"Hmm~? Did something happen?" Samael hummed blithely.

"Somebody missed the door with a baggage cart", he retorted with mock sweetness as they both knew that was a lie. "Breach: why?"

"Indeed, why would I do something like that? There has been no breach of contract. The international transit zone of an airport is no man's land: juridically, you left Japan the moment you stepped into transit in Haneda."

Shiro felt like kicking something. Or crushing something – Samael's throat would've been nice. Slippery son of a bitch, of course there had been loopholes! Shiro drew slow, calming breaths, counting the seconds they hissed in and out between his clenched teeth. The phone receiver creaked ominously in his hand.

"And the key you gave her?" His voice echoed back to him as if he had been standing in a cave, sounding taut as it strained against the tight muscles in his throat. It's one thing to use a loophole: that was still within the outlines of the contract. Sending Kasumi to see him was a different matter altogether, and that Shiro could only put down to pure wanton spite.

"Merely facilitating the severing of ties you failed to cut, seminarian Fujimoto", came the smooth, crackling response. "Loose ends turn into noose ends easily if left untended."

Shiro bared his teeth in a grimace that spelled murder. True, he had known there would be consequences if he didn't break up. But he had _intended_ to break up. He _had_ broken up, and in a much better way than the shitstorm he had kicked up at Haneda airport.

"I _was going to_ break contact with her and I had left her a letter that she would have read if _you_ hadn't gone in between and given her that goddamn key!" His voice echoed through the static buzz as if he had been shouting into a metal can. It died down, and there was static only. The silence was long enough for Shiro to wonder if the line had gone dead, and he was about to drop another coin in the slot when the answer came. It was _that_ voice. It was the voice Samael had when he dropped the Mephisto persona and revealed the devil behind it. Smooth. Silken. Sharp, and with all the precision of a scalpel.

"How long do you plan on holding others accountable for the consequences of your weakness?"

Shiro felt like he had been run through with a spear there and then. There must be magic to that voice, for it kept ringing in his head like the echoes on the phone line. How long would he blame others? It was such a bad habit humans had, holding demons accountable for the times when their restraint and self-control hadn't been enough. Oh yes, those words gave echo: he had heard them once before, though not the exact same ones. He had heard them in Samael's office the day he had signed this god-forsaken contract. _It's such a bad habit you humans have, blaming your faults on demons._

But it _wasn't_ his fault – at least not _all_ of it, and even if it _was_ he shouldn't be punished for it like this, and- and- Shiro shook his head and focused on keeping his barriers together. He might not _feel_ the fatigue, but it was there. Furthermore, demons were there – he could feel their presence pressing heavier and heavier against him as they homed in on his bleeding anger. This was not a discussion he was prepared to have, not under these circumstances. Had to prioritise.

"You're the biggest goddamn asshole that ever walked the earth and you're not doing _anything_ to Kasumi", he hissed into the phone. "When she comes up to your office – and you know damn well she will – you're not going to harm her physically, magically, verbally, or in any other fucking way you can come up with. No matter what she says, no matter what she does, she has nothing to do with our contract and _you will keep her out of it_." Shiro slammed the receiver onto its arm before Samael could reply. He was done with his shit. He was done with this whole train wreck of a day and all he wanted was to get to his apartment, ward the place, and go unconscious.

" _Keep your distance you little shits!_ " he snarled, although he didn't know if the congregating demons could actually hear him. Shiro focused on deep breaths, focused inwardly, focused on letting go and making himself unreachable, untouchable. He was in _Rome,_ god-fucking-dammit. He could _not_ have any slip-ups now.

It worked, it did. Massaging the scowl lines off his forehead, Shiro stalked out through the sliding door exit and was greeted by the warm Italian evening. The air smelt of sun-baked asphalt, like it hadn't rained in a while and earth was sending the sky dusty smoke signals for moisture. There were no real clouds, just a faint haze that covered the sky and dimmed the light from moon and stars. It was an evening that would have been perfect for walking, if he had trusted himself not to swerve out into the traffic.

Shiro soon spotted the sign for taxi parking at the far left of the terminal building and began walking. He had intended to take the bus originally but there was no way he could read time tables and switch between bus lines in this state. He could spend that extra bit of money on a taxi this once. The yellow cars were swarming in the dusk like overgrown fireflies, and he only had to raise his hand for one to spot him and drive over to the airport sidewalk.

…that was when Shiro discovered that his hands were empty. His backpack was still on but the suitcase was nowhere to be seen. For one panicked moment he thought he had forgotten it on the plane, only to remember that he hadn't had it on the plane, and that it must be sitting under the payphone.

Making a heel-turn and cursing under his breath, Shiro stalked back to the terminal exit just in time to slip in through the automatic sliding doors when disembarking passengers came out. He rounded the corner to the payphones and… There was no suitcase.

The bustling of voices and moving feet that filled the terminal faded into a churning background monotone around him. Shiro's brain kept repeating to him, like you do to a little child, that no matter how long he stared at the spot where the suitcase had been, it would not suddenly materialise before him. He might wish it would, but it wouldn't. The message never reached through, however, because Shiro's consciousness was being covered in a thick, rubbery coating of apathy that shut out everything. Fatigue fell back over him like a block of concrete. He was too tired for this. Too tired to care. He was done. With all of this.

" _I'll call the Lost & Found tomorrow. If they have one._" Shiro closed his eyes to be alone with that thought for a moment. Call tomorrow. Yes. When he had the brain capacity for it.

Swaying slightly when he turned around, Shiro dragged himself back out to the taxi parking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Always keep your passports, money and other vital things in your backpack or storage pouch on your person and never let it out of sight. (Shiro had his stuff in his backpack, don't worry, he's still got at least that.)
> 
>  **Cicadas** are as cool as they are bizarre. Given their life cycle it's not surprising that Buddhist tradition has used them as a metaphor for reincarnation and spiritual growth, just like the lotus; in Journey to the West a monk is likened to a cicada in how he sheds his illusions one by one during his journey and eventually achieves enlightenment. The chapter name is a flirt with a psychological horror series by the same name, also known as Higurashi No Naku Koro Ni. (It just might be the most brilliantly executed manga/anime I've seen.) There is a point with that reference, of course. It's just so very obscure and vague that it won't matter practically. (It just gives me something to chuckle contentedly about whenever I think of it. C:)
> 
>  **Demon karuta** is something Lightning mentions in chapter 71 of the manga, as a popular way of examining prospective Arias. No discrediting Bon's effort here, I just think Shiro would better at thinking outside the box. ^_^' They have gone to quite different schools of life, and while Bon's had a lot to do with precision, tradition, and "the proper way of doing things", Shiro's had more to do with getting into sticky situations and improvising with what was on hand (sometimes not even in that order).
> 
>  **Girimekhala** is a demonic elephant of monstrous proportions, and is said to be the mount Mara rode on when he tried to tempt the meditating Buddha.
> 
>  **Inflight smoking** was allowed on most airlines at this time, in case some of you were surprised that Shiro could smoke three cartons without getting caught by the stewardesses. Japanese airlines didn't ban smoking on international flights until 1999, due to many Japanese sharing Shiro's bad habit. =P
> 
>  **Insulting dresses** is not what Shiro meant to do, obviously. He was aiming for "testa di cazzo" (fuckhead) but ended up saying "vesta di cazzo" (fuckdress). Don't speak when tired and so on.
> 
>  **International transit zones** are a funny business, but useful if you're Edward Snowden or some other person who would benefit from juridical grey zones. I can't tell you exactly how that stuff works, since it's at each country's own discretion to decide exactly how to interpret the legal status of that no man's land and the people in it.


	85. Benvenuto a Roma

It smelled wrong. That was his first cue something was off.

Shiro groaned and turned face down into the pillow, away from the light. The pillow smelled funny, too. He reached blindly for his glasses on the nightstand, only to smack his hand into a wall.

"Nnnnnh…" He forced one bleary eye open. Yes. Definitely a wall. "Nngh…" He rolled over, sluggishly, and squinted in the other direction. Where the wall _should_ have been. There was a stocky, unfamiliar chair, and on it were his glasses and a set of keys, and beyond that were the fuzzy outline of a room.

Right. Yesterday. Moving to Rome. Landlady showing him his room.

Shiro drew a long, deep breath that came back out in a yawn. His body was nicely heavy from sleep, and he would have slept some more if he hadn't needed the bathroom so badly. Swinging his feet out of bed, he made the next discovery of the day: he was fully dressed. The same could not be said of the bed. Yesterday was a jigsaw blur in his memory, but apparently he had been too tired to bother with bed sheets or anything of the sort.

Shiro rose, and his stomach shrivelled up with a gurgling death rattle. His head ached thickly from dehydration, his mouth tasted like he had been French kissing a skunk's butt…

System overload: short-circuit. Shiro became vaguely aware that he was just standing, stupidly staring at his bed. The hunger and the need for the bathroom were having a kicking contest in his gut, pulling it inwards and stretching it outwards at the same time and both howling for his attention. His throbbing brain observed the fight apathetically, like a despondent parent deciding that maybe it's easier to just let the kids bash each other bloody until they tire of it. Maybe he'd just stop being hungry and stop needing to pee and then he could go back to sleep and pretend this day didn't exist.

Yes. Brilliant idea.

After some deliberation on where to even start, he decided breakfast would taste much better if he brushed his teeth – and anyway, he needed the bathroom. And water. Glasses on his nose, he shuffled his way to the door in the far end of the room. It was a single-room apartment, so not much to navigate. It wasn't unlike his dorm, actually – bigger, and with a private bathroom, but otherwise the usual setup with everything in pairs. Two beds, both with clinically clean and pressed linen stacked on top. Two sets of drawers, of which one looked like it had been subjected to the rough love of a small child and painted with new finish to cover the blemishes. Two windows and two identical desks, with little…

Shiro paused his shuffling to identify just what those were. He peered at the desk surface. Little round… tablecloths? They looked like lace, but they weren't. They weren't really tablecloths either. They were too small to cover anything, and full of frilly holes – meant to be there, probably, since they were symmetrical – and Shiro had no idea what they were for.

He gave up the guessing game quick enough. At least he had had the sense to ward the place the night before – he spotted a slip of paper inscribed with symbols jutting out from under the window frame. With a grunt, he pulled the mustard yellow curtain to the side. _ISTITUTO NAZIONALE DELLE ASSICURAZIONI_ , the one metre high concrete letters informed him. The building across the street looked more like a prison than an insurance agency, to be honest. Solid concrete and red brick, with a big, forbidding gate: barred, six metres high or more. The kind of entrance that makes people feel watched and insignificant.

Uplifting view.

He let the curtains fall shut and shuffled the last bit to the bathroom. It had no windows, and was- Shiro stopped. Scowling, he turned around and glared at the floor of the main room. He hadn't realised there had been a carpet until his feet felt the cool tiles of the bathroom floor. The carpet swathed every inch of the main room floor in a burnt orange cover of… fluff. He put his foot on it again, giving it a few experimental taps. Nice. He could get used to that.

Returning to the bathroom, he ran his hand along the wall in search of a light switch.

"Oh for the love of…!"

Shiro slapped a hand over his eyes and screwed them shut. Yeah, the bathroom had no windows alright – and somebody had decided to compensate by installing a goddamn floodlight in the ceiling. God. He could swear the light ricocheted around in his head like a stray bullet. Lowering his hand, Shiro carefully squinted around the room. Mint green seemed to be the theme there. Bathtub to the left, sink and mirror to the right, and next to the sink a toilet. One of those Western toilets that looked like hollowed out porcelain chairs.

Shiro glared: it reminded him of Samael. All the bathrooms in his mansion had Western toilets.

Meeting the eyes of his reflection in the mirror, his glare lost intensity and became a look of disappointed indifference. The stabbing fluorescent light was not, as they say, "kind". It brought out every tired shadow on his face, and combined with the weary grey of his patchy stubble to make him look twice as old as he was.

"Morning, ugly", he greeted. "How about you bring your toothbrush along if you intend to brush your teeth, hm?" After he re-acquainted himself with Western toilets.

As expected, he hadn't unpacked last night. His backpack had been left unceremoniously at the foot of the chair, and it took a great deal of unloading before he found what he was looking for. The lacquered case sat on his bed again, just like it had in Japan. Much as he hated it, he was glad he had put it in the backpack. But it couldn't stay there, no... His eyes wandered to the set of drawers, and the keyholes that stared back at him with empty sockets.

Shiro set the case on the scarred surface of the drawer, then reached for the leather cord inside his shirt collar. The key didn't bother him, and that bothered him. It leeched from his body heat as if pretending to be part of his skin and the bone beneath it. Part of him. He felt the weight against his chest, yes, but it wasn't a _bothersome_ weight. It didn't chafe or irritate. It simply hung there, idly ghosting over his skin as he moved, whispering quiet secrets to his sternum: to his heart.

It couldn't be coincidence that it hung at that height.

The Kamikakushi key fit in the lock and turned without sound or resistance, like all of Samael's keys did. They fit any lock: forced any lock to yield, reshaped the mechanism to suit their needs. Shiro placed the box in the empty top drawer, shut it, locked… When he opened it again, using the regular key from the second drawer, it was empty. He even patted the wooden bottom of the drawer with his hand, but there was nothing. Deciding to check one more time, just to be sure, he closed the drawer again and unlocked it once more with the magic key: there it was, the lacquered case.

Uncanny. But now he could brush his teeth in peace.

* * *

Breakfast did taste better with brushed teeth, yes. If he had had anything to eat. Shiro didn't think of that detail until he had already walked down a hall and entered the apartment kitchen.

The kitchen is the heart of the home: everybody has one. Not all know how to use it, but that's a different matter. This particular kitchen looked somewhat like a plane aisle; it was crowded by cupboards and compartment from both sides, leaving a narrow strip of space where you could move. A single person kitchen for three people to share. It shrunk in on itself, not out of shyness but from a sense of organisation: every little thing was lovingly but efficiently assigned a place, and there it stayed. All prim and proper, nothing out of line and nothing taking up unnecessary space. The kitchen was also colour themed, like every other room he had seen, and cupboards and walls all followed a yellow – or brown? – nuance that reminded him of soup broth.

Which in turn reminded him how goddamn hungry he was. And that he hadn't done any shopping yesterday.

" _I could borrow some and replace them later._ " Shiro had spotted a ceramic bowl on the kitchen countertop, and his stomach growled pleadingly. The landlady wouldn't notice a missing egg or two. And he would replace them as soon as he got back. " _Just a couple…_ " He had his hand in the egg bowl when his nose informed him that the basket next to it held food, too. " _Oh yes..._ " The smell of fresh bread hit Shiro's nose when the baking towel came off: he could have burst into Hail Marys there and then if he hadn't been drooling so badly.

One of the funniest things you can see is a starved individual trying to cook in a kitchen they've never seen before. Before Shiro had located the pans and cutlery and oils he needed for frying eggs, he had gotten himself stuck in a cupboard knob twice (bloody glasses string), pulled out and dropped a whole cutlery drawer on the floor (bloody strength), and almost knocked down a vase of flowers with a frying pan (bloody… vase).

But breakfast was worth it all. Shiro had rarely felt as close to paradise as when he took his first bite out of the warm egg sandwich and _moaned_. From there on, a couple of eggs had soon become three couples, and the half loaf of bread had mysteriously disappeared along with a fair amount of smoked ham.

Shiro was still frying eggs when he jumped, nearly flipping the egg into the exhaust hood, as he was startled by a sharp _ding_. And another _ding_.

Upon closer inspection the sound came from behind the fridge in the corner. Though, strictly speaking, the fridge wasn't _in_ the corner: there was a small gap left between fridge and wall. The kind of space that can't be used for anything except storing trays and dust bunnies – and, apparently, an old pendulum clock. Which had just struck two in the afternoon.

" _Who the fuck hangs a clock where you can't see the time?_ " Shiro glared as if it had insulted him personally. He was a bundle of nerves with his heart up in his throat because of that thing? Tch!

Two o'clock… That meant ten in Japan. It meant Sen and Midori would still be up. It meant Shiro should place a call.

The moment he realised that, his brain helpfully suggested a load of other things he could do: call Lost & Found at the airport, buy cigarettes, buy food, sort his belongings into drawers, make his bed, clip his nails, count the number of picture frames hanging in the hall.

" _Sometimes you gotta do things you don't wanna do_ ", he reminded himself. Then he snorted. " _I'm sounding more like my parents than my parents._ "

Cutting the gas from the stove, Shiro went back out into the hall that connected all the rooms in the apartment complex. It took him a while to actually find the phone, as it was mounted on the wall and well hidden among the myriads of picture frames. Really, how many Madonnas did you need to feel properly certain you'd see Heaven?

The phone was a rotary dial model and rattled mechanically each time he worked the wheel. With each number he dialled, he hoped the rotary mechanism would snag on something, get stuck, keep him from making that call. When it didn't, he hoped nobody would answer the beeping tone.

God he was pathetic.

Shiro didn't have to think long about what to say, once a voice at the other end answered. He had been running this conversation in his head since he woke up. The voice that answered wasn't a familiar one, but it was the voice of a young girl.

"Hi. Fujimoto Shiro. I'd like to talk to Futotsuki Sen, or Sakura Midori. Either will do." He searched the wall with his eyes for some place to put his hand, so he could have something to lean on, but if it wasn't Mary stopping him it was some embroidered pigeon. Or magpie or unnamed bird. "Though give it to Sen-chan, if you can find her."

His hand wormed down into his pocket instead and occupied itself with the lighter. Open lid, close lid; turn around one way, turn around the other; his fingers created elaborate patterns, like prayers to ward off evil.

"Moshi-moshi, Shiro-kun." Sen's voice reached him a little muffled over the line. "How is Rome?"

"Don't know yet – I slept until now. Listen, I've got lots of stuff to see to here, so I'll make it short and write you a long letter when I have everything settled. That letter I gave you? For Kasumi?"

"Yes?"

"She'll be coming to the Academy within a few days; she doesn't know I've left her a letter, so you'll need to keep an eye out and catch her _when she comes_." His fingers stilled for a moment, clutching the lighter in a tight grip. He hoped he hadn't stressed those last words too much. "We didn't exactly part as friends, that's why I left a letter for her", he said and tried to sound as naturally as he could. "It's not that big a thing, but mole hills become mountains and all that. She might be in a foul mood when she comes, just giving you a heads-up about that. I really want the misunderstanding sorted out as soon as possible, so please give her the letter as soon as you can. Okay?"

He'd like to think he sounded relaxed and inconspicuous, but the silence from the other side had him holding his breath. The fewer questions Sen asked the better – especially since Kasumi would be showing up with a radically altered face.

"Okay", Sen said at long last. "So you haven't seen any goats?" Shiro could hear the deadpan in her voice, but he could also picture the ever so subtle smile that gave away the joke.

"Sorry: only parrots in Rome."

"Parrots?"

"M-mh", he confirmed, throwing an eye around the corridor to see what else he could identify. "And doves and… stuff. My landlady likes birds. And embroidery. She's got the whole wall full." Shiro's eyes met with a bright yellow one that stared at him down a viciously hooked beak. The canvas was much larger than the others, as was the bird: perched high up at the ceiling as if to monitor the rest. Shiro didn't need to know what it was to know it was a predator. "Actually…" This part of the conversation he hadn't run through in his head. This part came out of thin air and brittle worry that something terrible might happen where he had no chance to prevent it. "They're better off that way, the birds." He drew upon every ounce of theatrical talent he had to make it sound like a joke. "Far away from bigger birds with sharper eyes. It's an in-joke", he added. "Between Kasu-chan and me."  
 _  
And I,_ he heard Shizuku's voice correct him in the back of his mind.

He and Sen ended up talking for quite some time, about nonsense things and about what reasons there might be for hiding a clock behind a fridge. Eventually Sen had to retire for the night, and promised to give everyone his best regards. The phone gave a loud, resonant _ding_ when he hung up the receiver: and Shiro sighed as if hit in the chest with a dumbbell weight.

"That went surprisingly well", he congratulated himself. He felt lighter. Energised. Ready to take the day by the horns and master it. With a quirk of his lips and a quick bend, he picked up the phone book from the small stool beneath the phone. "Next one on the list…"

* * *

Lost & Found had found his suitcase, thank god. All he had to do was take the bus to the airport and pick it up.

Apartment locked and keys in pocket, Shiro jogged down two flights of stairs and… didn't actually know where to find a bus that went the right direction. Hands in his pockets, he started up the faintly sloping street to his right. There was a travel agency a few doors ahead: best shot at finding somebody to ask when everybody was at work. The man behind the desk didn't know which bus he should take, however. His colleague didn't know either, only that buses to the airport departed from the central train station, Termini. How to get to Termini was something Shiro would have to figure out on his own.

With a moderate headache still reminding him to hydrate, Shiro continued up Via Umbria. There was a T-crossing approaching, and a house with a huge, ornate iron gate and… Palace was a more accurate word. An ornate gate and an even more ornate pink palace squatting beyond it like a huge, pompous toad.

Shiro made a military sharp turn to the left, continuing on that street and refusing to look at the building. The street he came upon next was much bigger than Umbria, and for the first time he came out in direct sun. Squinting, he observed the little cars and the little Vespa's that crammed themselves together on the road, trying to make themselves smaller still in the hopes of squeezing past and getting ahead of the traffic. Warm dust tickled his nose. Coal tars bobbed leisurely on the heat currents rising from the asphalt, same as they did in Japan.

There were more people on the sidewalks, too. He asked a woman carrying groceries for the fastest way to Termini and the directions were easy: follow the road down to the bus stop – Bissolati – and take bus 85. Better yet, when Shiro arrived at the stop and checked the timetable bus 85 was due in two minutes.  
…after three minutes he had to ask if there was something wrong. Luckily, there was a quite attractive young woman waiting for the bus, too, with a wild bundle of brown curls cluttering around her shoulders.

"Oh no, signore. The bus is late. We'll just have to wait and see", she replied in fast-paced, roiling Italian. "You aren't late for anything, I hope?"

"Not really. Just asking." The reply confused him, to be honest. Late? In all his 20 years of life, Shiro had never seen public transport be _late_.

"Where are you from?" she continued the moment he fell silent.

"Japan. This is my first day he-"

"All the way from Japan? That must have taken a long time. What brings you here? I hope you will enjoy the stay. How long are you staying? There's so much to do in Rome now that it's summer – don't miss the night fair on Via Ostiense the 29th."

Shiro didn't know how she expected him to reply to those questions when she carried on talking, or if she expected him to reply at all. The rapid-fire talk carried on for another ten minutes, with him interjecting a word here and there, until he saw the green bus finally come crawling down the packed street.

"Good luck with everything!" She beamed a rather yellow smile at him as he climbed aboard the bus.

People were talking on the bus. At first he thought they were outraged how late their transportation was, but from the bits of conversation he caught as he went down the aisle that wasn't it. They were just talking – very animatedly – and nobody seemed to find it strange that the bus was over ten minutes late.

What people _did_ find strange was him. They weren't discreet about it either. Heads turned when he walked past – once he even heard an older man ask his seat neighbour "what do you think he was?", as if Shiro couldn't understand what they were saying.

Well, let them at it. People in Japan did the same when foreigners came there, only they were more discreet about it. Shiro did his own fair share of staring at the bus when the passengers weren't looking. So many colours of hair. So many strange faces.

Shiro amused himself with looking at people all the way to Termini, where he was informed that the buses for the airports departed once per hour and that he had just missed the departure. He was also asked which airport he wanted to go to, and learnt that Fiumicino was only part of the name: the full name was Fiumicino Leonardo da Vinci International Airport.

Shiro stalked off from the information desk with his lips pressed into a thin line. Was every single thing in Rome determined to remind him of the last person he wanted to think about? Well he was just as determined to think about other things.

In a corner of the open area before the central station was a cluttered little building Shiro knew to be a kiosco. That is, it was something of an octagonal, and every square centimetre of it was packed with trinkets and tourist things. Post cards, maps, tour tickets, calendars – and newspapers. Shiro bought the day's _Corriere della Sera_ and two cartons of Marlboro: that should keep him occupied until the next airport bus.

That, and _tea_. Shiro had only just lit a well needed cigarette before he caught sight of the bar across the street.

* * *

A bar in Italy was not a bar, as Samael had instructed him in one of their many roleplay lectures. A bar was the same as a café, and it was where Italians came to get their life-sustaining coffee. Shiro didn't care for anything that smelled that bad and had the colour of something burnt beyond recognition. His elixir of life was tea. He had searched every cupboard in the shared kitchen and found nothing except a few sad bags of chamomile tea. As he had wanted to wake up rather than fall asleep, he had left them on their shelf.

A smoke, a newspaper, and a cup of tea. Yes.

A bell above the door jingled pleasantly when he entered the spacious bar. It seemed like quite the popular place, and he could understand why. There was an air of home about it, a welcoming atmosphere created by people who loved their shop and their work. He swept the place with accustomed eyes, taking note that there were no signs of demons or places likely to attract demons. There was only the odd coal tar, being whisked about by the slowly churning fan in the ceiling.

Shiro quietly rehearsed to himself how this was supposed to be done. When ordering at a bar, place the order and pay at the cash register, then take the receipt to the barista who would make your coffee. Or tea.

If he could get to the barista, that was. There didn't seem to be any correlation between placing your order and picking it up, nor any actual queue. Well: when in Rome, do as the Romans do. Shiro shouldered his way to the counter and placed his order - that went quite smoothly, even though he was acutely aware that he landed the accent wrong on 'tea'. The greying man working the cash register didn't seem to mind. He licked his finger, counted up the change, and handed it over to Shiro – who did his best not to picture how a certain germophobe would have reacted in that situation.

It was kinda gross though – handling money like that. Not even putting it on a tray before handing it over.

The barista made eyes at him in ways no one could mistake. And what eyes! Shiro had never seen eyes that big, not even Sen's. They were a light hazel, same colour as the hair that cupped her head and curled in softly towards her neck. And her apron fit her… very well, he noticed, when she turned her back to him to prepare his order.

What she put on the counter was a cup of hot water with a teabag dangling its string over the edge. Chamomile.

"Excuse me, do you have other tea?" He tossed the question out quickly, catching her while he still had her attention. "Green tea, if you have. Red works, too."

Her pretty hazel eyes regarded him as if she didn't understand a word he was saying.

"Green. Tea", he articulated as thoroughly as he could. But no, it wasn't his pronunciation that failed him. When that dawned on him, Shiro's stare became as blank and uncomprehending as hers. " _She has no idea what green tea is. People in Italy don't know what green tea is…_ " He knew he was on the other side of the earth. It just didn't sink in until that precise moment. "Uhm… Forget the tea. You don't…" He held up a hand, palm up, politely giving up and leaving the matter in her hands. "Please make something similar like tea but that won't put me to sleep. I'll pay."

He had never seen such poorly veiled disdain as when she swept his cup from the bar and turned away. It didn't escape his attention that she was much nicer to the customer coming after him, either. Really, now? All he had asked was to get a different kind of tea!

After the customer was served, a new cup landed before him with an ungraceful clink. There were none of the flirtatious looks she had sent him before. He had a "thank you" ready on his tongue but it never made it beyond his lips.

The cup held a black, murky liquid with a smell that made his nose prickle, and it was unmistakably coffee.

"Thank you", he said, although she had already turned away and was busy with her next customer. Shiro gave the brew a sceptical sniff and took a sip. His face shrivelled up instantly. He swallowed again but it was like the taste had burnt into his tongue. "Sorry. Can I have some more water in this?" he asked as politely as he could after his less than polite display.

The woman looked at him as if he had insulted her father. Not with a very good insult, either: some mediocre run-of-the-mill slur that couldn't even be taken personally, only mark him as the kind of general jerk who has no friends. This time Shiro scowled back. It wasn't like he was being a nuisance on purpose. Surely she could tell he wasn't used to this? And either way, she could have at least tried to treat him the same as her other customers.

She took his cup back without a word, conveying her disdain well enough with only the sharp angles of her raised eyebrows; she returned the cup a moment later, without comment. Shiro thanked her, although it came out more sarcastic than sincere.

It shouldn't have been possible, but the added water somehow just brought out the taste even worse. Shiro stared at the cup in his hands and weighed his options. Toss this rat poison back in one gulp and leave, or push his luck with the barista the last bit over the precipice.

…it was very tempting to swallow the coffee and leave, but he didn't know if he would be able to. Throw it away? Shiro had sinned much in his life but he did not throw away food. Especially not when he had paid for it.

"Can I have some milk in it instead?"

"What are you-" she began harshly, but caught herself. She leaned over the counter, thrusting the words at his face with an angry whisper. "What do you want? Tea, then no tea; coffee, then no coffee – what is your problem? And milk? What would you have me pour in next, hm? Wine? You like making fun of people at work? Then _go do it somewhere else,_ coglione."

"I don't make fun of you!" He wasn't. He was a foreigner in a foreign land and she should damn well not expect him to be anything but that. "I don't know what to order, I don't know what you serve! You don't have things we have in my country!"

"Then maybe you should have thought of that before you went to Italy!" Shiro couldn't even put together a reply, only stare. Her arms were everywhere, chopping and waving in the air, and while he had no idea what all those gestures meant the message was abundantly clear. "Umberto! See this gentleman out, please!"

"Don't bother, I'll leave." Shiro did not need to find out who Umberto was, and he didn't really want to finish his coffee either.

* * *

Fucking women.

…well he didn't mind _that_ , but _women_ could be so stupidly difficult. And for no reason! That was the worst thing about them; they got upset over absolutely nothing and then they never let it go. Rest assured they wouldn't tell you what they were upset about either. They got upset and then they sulked – forever.

Shiro spent his bus ride smoking and testing his Italian with the newspaper. Mouthing the words to himself helped work the new motions into his tongue and lips. He understood most of the articles, too – the odd word here and there escaped him, but that was only to be expected. Not to say that he understood what they were about. Only that a lot of things were going on in Italy.

The main article was about a Cossiga minister guy and some Pannelli guy in the Radical Party going through a verbal wrestling match. There had been some demonstration a month ago, in Rome. It had escalated to a riot, shots had been fired, and one woman had died. Pannelli blamed Cossiga for not guaranteeing the safety of the demonstrators, and Cossiga in turn blamed Pannelli for carrying out the demonstration despite him saying that he couldn't guarantee the safety of the demonstrators. Word against word with no documentation on either side. Accusations were thrown left and right as to what jackass had fired into the crowd and why – Cossiga had had Carabinieri in civil clothing mixed into the crowd; extremists had mingled in and killed on purpose to bring about public uproar and destabilise the government; the woman had secretly been shot by radical feminists so they could "prove" they were right about oppression of women.

" _Niigata Minamata all the way_ ", he scoffed at the article. Cossiga and Pannelli wouldn't care who was left sitting with the blame as long as it wasn't them. Men of power never wanted to take responsibility when civilians were hurt.

Getting his luggage back was quick once he got to the airport, despite Italians having no organisation whatsoever when they walked on and off transport. Shiro was on his way out to the buses again when he passed one of the many ads in the airport and it clicked. The beach. He couldn't even remember the last time he had been to a beach, and the pictures of blue water and sun-kissed sand dotted with parasols spoke to every fibre of his being. How long had it been since he had taken a proper vacation and just done nothing?

* * *

Everything went so much smoother when he had a reward waiting at the end. He got back to Rome with his tourist leaflet in hand, hopped on the bus, bought the eggs and ham he owed the landlady, dropped everything off, and gathered himself and his swim shorts for a nice, relaxing afternoon of checking out girls in swimsuits.

It was on the beach that Shiro felt he could truly appreciate Italy. The sand stretched a good half kilometre to his left, billowing like a mirage in the bright sunlight; to his right it curved like a sickle, forming a harbour nested against the outcropping peninsula. A breeze swept in from the infinite blue, where white triangles of sails cruised slowly over the almost still water. It smelled of salt and seaweed. He felt the warmth of the sand seep through his shoes, the whiff of sun-baked skin as he put his hand up to shade his eyes and get a better view.

Girls in Italy all wore bikini. He could appreciate that.

Smile on his lips, Shiro kicked off shoes and socks and tucked them in with the towel roll he carried under his arm: time to locate the most strategic lookout point. The beach was flat, save for a small rise where wind and waves had crafted a few rudimentary dunes. That might work. He wove his way between towels and parasols and tanned, naked skin, then carefully balanced his weight as he climbed the sliding sand hill.

Yeah that would probably do. He took off his glasses for a quick polish, sauntering towards the neighbouring dune top to see what kind of view he'd get from the-

"Aua!"

Shiro half-jumped half-stumbled back and reached for a gun that wasn't there. _Shit_. He crammed his glasses back on his nose – if he could only identify the demon there was a chance he knew its fatal-

"The shit…?" Shiro felt his face take on the shape of one big, dumbfounded question mark.

The sand he had stepped on was a flapping camouflage blanket, and the one doing the flapping was a tangle of red, frizzy curls attached to a person. A woman, he saw when she floundered to her feet. A tall, flustered woman in bell-bottom pants two sizes too small. She frantically inspected some black box for damage. A camera? With two lenses?

The woman's head snapped up, and even behind the huge sunglasses Shiro could tell that she was frying him with her eyes. She had her mouth open to burn his ears off as well, but halted abruptly. It did not make Shiro any less confused.

When she finally moved, she let the camera fall back in its strap against her (considerable) chest and extended her hand. Still confused to hell, Shiro reached out to shake it.

Her hand went past his as if she hadn't even noticed, and closed firmly around his-

Shiro's whole being squeaked. His brain had no protocol prepared for what to do in case an unknown woman grabbed his junk.

"Also stimmt es…" he heard her murmur. Distantly. As if he had been wearing earplugs.

Not a millisecond later, the world crashed back in with audio. There were shouts and piercing whistles, and two men in what must be police uniforms coming at full speed over the sand.

The woman reacted to the whistle blows like an Olympic sprinter. Before Shiro had grasped what was happening she was hightailing it out of there with the camouflage flapping behind her and the policemen in hot pursuit. They had to give up quickly, however; once she reached the edge where beach sand met grass, the woman threw herself onto a plate-less Vespa and speeded down the street.

"Signore! Signore, do you speak Italian?"

"Uh... Yes."

"We saw what happened." The taller of the two had piercing blue eyes that stood out against his tan. He was also sweating profusely through his uniform. "It's not the first time. We would like you to describe the woman, please. Anything that can aid an identification."

It wasn't much of a description. Her hair, her clothes, her camera. She wasn't Italian, probably – he hadn't recognised any of what she said, at least, but he was unfamiliar with provincial dialects. It felt surreal. Shiro couldn't quite grasp the fact that a woman had just groped him in broad daylight.

"Who is she? Who does that kind of thing?"

"Some bitch from UDI." Whatever UDI was, the other policeman made it very clear what he thought of it.

The tall one wasted no time – literally no time, the man hadn't even finished his sentence – arguing that UDI wasn't perfect but it did make some good points.

"Don't get me wrong: I love women", the other defended himself, with the mandatory hand-waving. "When they behave like women."

It was the same as when he woke that morning. The policemen had left and Shiro was just… standing. Staring. Trying to…

She had _grabbed his junk._

Shiro tried stretching, arms up over his head, in an attempt to get his mind back into his body. Crazy fucking day. He _really_ deserved his sweet afternoon on the beach now. And so he picked up his towel, put every thought of nutjob women out of his mind, and spread it on the top of the dune. Nutjob or not, the "bitch from UDI" had picked the best viewpoint on the beach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Carabinieri** is the military police. Though in my opinion they look more like military than police. I happened to stay in an area of Rome – Trastevere – where the Carabinieri were conducting an operation against civil disorder, so I passed by their patrols every morning.
> 
>  **UDI** is L'Unione Donne in Italia, which I believe is the largest feminist organisation in Italy.
> 
>  **The Niigata Minamata scandal** was a thing in the mid-60's. Hundreds of people fell ill due to a chemical plant dumping wastewater into the river. The company tried to cover it up by accusing other sources, like agriculture.
> 
>  **Public transport** works well in Rome nowadays, but according to sources I interviewed it wasn't always so. Buses sort of… came when they came. I expect that would surprise Shiro a great deal since Japanese public transport is (and was?) extremely punctual. …Well, I can't imagine anyone would actually double-check, but for the record the bus numbers and routes I use are from modern-day Rome and not the 70's because good luck finding those. So if you are taking a stroll in the vicinity of Via Umbria you can take bus 85 from Bissolati to Termini.
> 
>  **The thing with gestures…** In case you wonder why the bar dialogue escalated the way it did, it's because Shiro wasn't interested in learning Italian body language when he and Samael roleplayed. =P To raise your hand and indicate a person with your palm facing upwards is a polite way of referring to another in Japan; in Italy, it's the equivalent of "I can't believe this idiot". To which the barista's response is coglione – "asshole". (more like "balls", but used the same as English asshole)
> 
>  **The drink faux pas** didn't improve the situation. Tea, for example, is something you drink mainly when you're ill and need to soothe the body with – most commonly – chamomille. Italians aren't big on tea at all: coffee is the thing. The espresso is the default, regular coffee, while Caffè Americano is the watered-down variety you order if you want most other people's "regular coffee".
> 
> But the milk is the real problem. Ordering a caffe latte is okay, but only before noon (remember, this is after three o'clock). After noontime, you do not drink milk: it's believed to interfere with your digestion and in general just be very bad for you. And strictly speaking, the Italians are right. The majority of the world's population can't digest lactose in adult age – Shiro most likely can't – which is why we have a term like lactose intolerance. As I have a Scandinavian genetic setup, I can (and do) drink all the milk I want. That doesn't keep Italian waiters from looking absolutely horrified when I order milk with my pizza. Like they expect me to drop dead off my chair.
> 
>  **Politics, politics…**  
>  I always try to research to the best of my abilities, but there are times when I do admit defeat. So here's my summary of Italian politics in the 70's: it's a bar fight, in a pitch black room, with a dozen brawlers that are all gonna point fingers at each other when the lights are turned back on and somebody asks who the fuck is responsible for this mess.
> 
> I've pieced together some form of basic understanding using the scraps I've found, but honestly Italians themselves barely understand what was really going on in the 70's. That bickering between Pannelli and Cossiga? They're still at it. Forty years later they're still having the argument about who did what and who didn't do what he should have done.


	86. First encounters

Shopping for groceries took infinitely much longer than it would have if he hadn't had to go through the whole haggling dance with each and every produce vendor. On top of that they asked the same thing, every single one of them: _where are you from, signore?_ Trying to show interest, one would assume, but telling the story over and over got old quick. The eighth time he was asked he just snarled "from someplace where you buy your damn vegetables instead of talking about them". So worth paying a few extra lire for his leek.

Shiro shouldered the apartment door open and kicked it shut softly once he was in, both hands occupied with loaded shopping bags. Nudging his shoes off, he carried his supplies into the small kitchen and the soon-to-be-filled fridge. But first off, the loaf of bread – to replace the one he had eaten yesterday. Every respectable Italian bought their bread fresh each morning.

However, there already was a loaf in the basket. There was a crisp salad sitting on the countertop, and in the oven a parmigiana was looking ready to be taken out and served. Just how early did the landlady rise to have all this–

"There you are!"

Shiro couldn't remember what her name was. It must have been something short and stocky: the woman who came waddling in from the corridor looked like she should be called something short and stocky. She looked like someone who at some point in life had made an enemy of gravity, and gravity had responded by pulling all her features down like a soufflé caving in on itself.

"Sleep all day, do you? Out indecencing at night of course – oh don't I know the minds of men", she huffed with the conviction of one who considers herself an expert in the field.

Whether or not "indecencing" was an actual word was up for discussion, but Shiro had more urgent discussions he needed to have with his landlady. He could see it already, the crowning fuck up to his bad reputation résumé: _seminarian kicked out of Papal University before he even enrolled_.

"You don't have to worry about indecencing; I'm a seminarian, I don't-"

" _I don't_ , _I wouldn't_ – boy, had I been given a lira every time I heard a man say that I wouldn't be renting rooms to students. Shoo, shoo!" She flapped the oven gloves at him until he hopped out of the way. She had a good amount of jewellery on her fingers, he noted: a good amount of jewellery overall, from the earrings peeping out of her grey curls to the heavy necklace weighing down the knitted cardigan that covered her blouse.

If he thought his sidestep would help, it didn't. When the parmigiana was out of the oven the landlady kept on herding him backwards, all but using the scalding hot oven form as a cattle prod.

"Just so, just so, move those skinny legs of yours: sit."

Sit? Why yes: upon closer inspection there was a minuscule table and two equally minuscule chairs at the far back of the kitchen, which was also the only place where you had a chance to actually see the pendulum clock behind the fridge. There were plates and cutlery laid out for two, and glasses accompanied by two bottles of soft drink Shiro identified as San Pellegrino Aranciata.

"Actually, I was just going to drop groceries off and–" Walk to his appointment at Rome Headquarters, as he wanted to get a look at his new home town.

"None of the sort: you're not leaving this apartment until you eat, Alexander."

It was like that one time Sen's goblin had lifted him up by the collar of his shirt: there was nothing to be done except wait until it let go. The parmigiana sat on its cork coaster, the salad sat next to it, and Queen Goblin skewered him with her piercing grey eyes.

"I'll be dead before I house a thief under my roof, you hear? Nothing disappears from pantries or drawers. You have the two upper shelves in the fridge for your things, and the cupboard closest by. You tidy the kitchen immediately after you use it and I will not permit any dirty dishes lying around. Laundry can be done between six in the morning and ten in the evening, not at other times…"

Shiro had perfected the art of zoning out monologues long ago and focused on his food instead. He had bought new ham, new eggs and new bread; as far as he was concerned the only thieving he'd done was back home in Japan. If Queen Goblin still had a problem with that she could sit on a cactus.

"…if you use the phone you wipe it with a wet cloth afterwards, and– What are you doing?" she gasped.

"Eating", Shiro informed through a mouthful of savoury parmigiana. "I have to be at HQ by–"

"Good lord!" And a whole rattle of other things that were too fast for him to catch. "What did your parents teach you? You say grace before eating! Here, like this."

With no concern whatsoever that he was holding cutlery, Queen Goblin took his hands and shoved them together, with the knife and fork awkwardly jutting up between his fingers. Clasping her own hands as well, she recited a swift but sincere grace. …after which she continued down the list of house rules and curfew hours. And not to bring any girls to his room; she repeated that about three times.

* * *

Four servings of parmigiana later Shiro was jogging to the bus stop with map in hand and the uniform robe slung over his arm. Queen Goblin – Roberta Modugno – had been serious about not letting him leave until he had eaten. Furthermore, with her exceptional knowledge of how men worked – how young men worked – she "could tell" he wasn't full just yet. Shiro himself could tell he wouldn't throw up just yet, but if he kept jogging it was only a matter of time. There was no way he would make it to his registration at HQ on foot anymore, not even if he _could_ run. Hopefully fate would smile on him enough to at least let him make it in time for the bus.

It had been one damn good parmigiana, though.

Fate, or whatever higher power was in charge of Rome, had an odd sense of humour. Shiro didn't make it in time to the bus stop – neither, however, did the bus. Because timetables in Rome were just there as a practical joke to confuse tourists and buses arrived whenever they fucking pleased. So while Shiro did catch his bus, he still didn't arrive on time at Headquarters.

St Peter's Basilica looked the same as when he had been there two years ago; the towering dome, the huge plaza that opened up before it, the saints watching from atop the encircling colonnades. It seemed strangely familiar, even if he had only been there once before. It seemed… _very_ familiar.

Last time Shiro had been in the Vatican it had been rainy December, and he had been to an exhilarating Court interrogation that left very little of his attention with the architecture. Now that he looked at it head on in daylight, the Roman Headquarters looked an awful lot like the Japanese. Marble columns and colonnades were a typical feature at True Cross Academy: people sometimes came to take pictures of them, or just admire the foreign architecture – Roman architecture.

Trust Samael to build his own Vatican if he couldn't buy the existing one.

" _Get out of my head._ " His fingers went to work with automated practice, slipped a cigarette between his lips and wed it to the shy flame of his lighter. Set fire to unwelcome thoughts, burn the edges of the wound and seal it shut.

The marble colonnades rose like forests on each side of him, curving majestically to embrace the milling masses into the bosom of Saint Peter. The queue to enter the basilica formed a colonnade of its own: a shaky, poorly constructed one that meandered between the pillars in search of shelter from the sun. The plaza itself was almost deserted, with only a few sunscreened brave ones taking their picture in front of the obelisk and the fountains. Shiro slipped into his robes, past the queue and the dozens of different languages that hung like a sweaty cloud around it. A branch representative would be waiting for him at the most obvious landmark there was: the giant obelisk in the middle of the plaza. The Witness, it was called. The sole remaining witness to the martyr deaths that had taken place in Rome thousands of years ago. It quietly venerated those who had died for their faith, and reminded each and every one of their fine example.

Catholics sure loved their masochism.

You can always spot an exorcist in a crowd. The long black robes stand out like tomatoes in a basket of eggs, for one thing, but how an exorcist behaves is just as telling. The knowledge that demons are everywhere comes with a certain price to pay: when a threat can spring up around the corner at any given moment, nerves are wound tighter. Senses are whittled sharper. Muscles are always ready to spring into action, and the mind is never truly at rest.

The man who leaned against the stone in the shadow of the obelisk was, seemingly, relaxed. His beard and moustache connected at the tips and formed a square around his mouth, while thick sideburns crept out from below a wicker hat that added a friendly, casual touch to the austere cut of the uniform. He might have been a stone fundament himself, the way the mass of his large body settled his feet firmly on the ground. His arms were crossed over his chest in a comfortable manner – relaxed, to the untrained eye. An exorcist would recognise the tell-tale signs, however: the sweeping gaze and filtering ears that methodically surveilled the plaza.

It didn't take him long to spot Shiro. The bearded face lit up, the arms uncrossed, a balding head came into view as he removed his hat. In three gliding steps he had closed the distance, clasped Shiro's shoulders and…

One moment the man's face came _disturbingly_ close, next the bushy sideburns prickled Shiro's cheek, and then the exaggerated noise of… of _kisses_ landing on his cheeks.

"Welcome to Rome!" the man declared with a rumbling laugh as he eyed his handiwork. "Yes yes, that's how most transfers react – don't worry, you'll get your shoulders out of your ears soon enough."

Shiro righted his shoulders and the rest of his body and face as best he could and tried not to look like… Like whatever the fuck had just happened.

"Benedetto Battista", the exorcist smiled jovially, plopping his hat back on and thrusting his hand in Shiro's. "You'll hear most calling me Bébé, that's fine too. Lower First Class and Knight instructor."

"Shi– Alexander Fujimoto", he responded somewhat scatter-brained, and not just because his future teacher was called Baby; there was something wrong with the hand he was shaking. "Lower Second Class, Dragoon and Aria."

"Pleasure to have you with us, Alexander! I hope you don't mind the first name basis – I would use surname if I believed I could pronounce it. We have plenty of international exorcists here and I can't get the name right on a single one." He shook his head with a smile and some hand-waving. The hand in question was missing ring finger and little finger. "Though if you ask my daughter it's because I can't get the name right on anyone!" Benedetto laughed again – a hearty, rumbling laugh – and slapped his maimed right hand on Shiro's shoulder. "So, my dear student, your first lesson in Rome is cheek kissing: right cheek then left cheek. But only between friends, yes? When you meet someone for the first time you do not kiss: shake hands, nothing more."

"What? But–"

"Why I kissed you? Shock therapy for the culture shock." Benedetto winked. "Acclimatising can be a tricky thing for faraway transfers – the sooner you make yourself at home the better. Come, let's get you acquainted with Roma Aeterna!"

* * *

The Basilica was a temple; Headquarters were a fort. Nothing of the airy, otherworldly splendour above could be detected in the subterranean levels of the building. Corridors and staircases ribbed with austere stone arcs dug through the ground like the skeletons of giant snakes long dead and buried. Occasionally there would sprout even older passages to the sides, ones that breathed the damp, cold breath of raw earth. A world beneath the world. Benedetto was an enthusiastic tour guide, relating non-stop what they were seeing and what saint this-and-that statue depicted. The gesturing never stopped either, and Shiro idly wondered if it was his arms that were a windmill mechanism to operate his mouth or if it was the other way around.

"A funny way to build, right? Small corridor, square room, small corridor, square room." Indeed, the corridor ran like a string of prayer beads. The rooms were always sparsely furnished and didn't seem to fill any function other than… existing. "It's to make the base easier to defend. These corridors form bottlenecks, see? No matter how big an army that comes we can stand in the rooms and cut them down one by one, or two by two. If we can't hold one room we fall back and take up positions in the next. Clever, eh?"

Shiro hummed his agreement. Still, the greatest difference were the defences that weren't visible. Back in True Cross the wards only repelled demons of mid-level and higher: here nothing slipped through. No voiceless whispers, no ghostly buzz in his spine. The constant, invisible pressure he had grown used to… Down to nothing.

Once, he might have welcomed that feeling. When he had just recently become a demon lighthouse, his natural defences against possession burnt away, and wanted nothing more than to go back to how things used to be.

Things change. Things change and people change with them – that's how they survive. To suddenly not pick up any demonic presences at all felt unsafe. Like being blind. Like not being able to sense danger until it was too late. Because the price of knowing demons existed was nothing compared to the price of underestimating them.

"Ah, this is the best part of the tour!"

Like a creek reaching a lake, the corridor opened up into a grand hall. As they passed the double doors the ceiling formed vaults above them, leaping from pillar to pillar across the length and width of the room. The room itself was crowded: with desks, with lamps, with merry chatter and the crisp rustle of papers being handled.

"This is where all the paperwork gets done. As you can see it's everybody's favourite spot in summer, very nice and cool. This here is the reception desk – you will be seeing this a lot." The reception desks were the first line of booths and formed a natural barrier between the visitors' part of the hall and the part where the archivists worked. "This is where we hand in our reports after each mission."

"Oh don't listen to him!" The receptionist was a woman with a lot of make-up, and a chic scarf around her neck in the Order's red and blue colours. "We know why exorcists hang around here, Battista", she said with a sly look.

Well. The report desk might have been everybody's favourite spot for the cool air, or it might have been their favourite spot because all the workers were female: and they had some very form-fitting uniform skirts.

"Clara, you wound me! I am on very important Order business! That is, I've been entrusted with our fresh transfer here and we need to enter him in the system. You know the form, yes? The double seven something?"

"Seven five seven two – you're lucky you have us to take care of the book keeping." Clara the receptionist - whose name tag read Annabella - produced the required form with a delighted laugh.

"There _are_ two sevens in it", he argued, but smiled all the same.

"You handle the demons and let us handle the numbers, dear. But tell me, did it work out for Arnaldo? Did he get to transfer?"

Clara/Annabella and Benedetto exchanged an uninterrupted flow of the Italian small talk over Shiro's head as he filled out his registration form. Lastly, he got to show his ID to her.

"Armoury next, then?" she said upon sliding his ID back to him. "If Gennaro is working today you can tell him next time I get a report with grime on it I'll give it right back. He can ruin his reports if he likes but it's on my head if his ruin the ones next to them as well."

* * *

Benedetto had no idea what he was talking about when he called the report desk the best part of the tour. In his defence Benedetto didn't understand guns, and he didn't understand people who were passionate about guns – he even said so as they entered the underground section that housed the armoury.

"Ciao, Marcello! Is Gennaro around?"

The armoury was… disappointing. As in it basically only displayed holsters, vests, ammunition belts, and other gear belonging to the Dragoon section.

"No – it's his youngest son's birthday." The actual firearms were kept behind a long counter that cut the room in two. The exorcist in charge of them was resting his lower arms on said counter while he leafed through a magazine with minimum interest. "He said something about going to Napoli to celebrate with the rest of the family. Bet they're having a great time of it. While I'm stuck here. Gathering dust." Another magazine page flopped over, unread and unenthusiastic. "What a way to waste one's life."

"Waste? What talk is this? It's a martyr death – you could do worse than that."

"Martyr", Marcello scoffed, but the scowl lines on his forehead smoothed somewhat. "Of what? Firearms?"

"Of dust."

"Go stuff your ass, Bébé."

"If you get out whatever's stuck up yours. You would be the most venerated martyr in the church – Saint Marcello, patron of dust, favourite of every housewife: hundreds of women praying for your services every day. Now try telling me that's a bad way to end!"

"Better than having one bald monkeyface interrupt me when I'm being moody."

It was like one of those doors that had multiple locks. Coax them open one by one and each time you got a step closer to getting through.

"Know which people are the only ones that can make a living off being moody?"

"This is going to be awful, isn't it?"

"Painters", Benedetto replied with a smile. And it grew wider. "Pain-tears."

Pain – yes. Like a knuckle duster gut punch.

"Good god, you want me to die from your jokes instead?!" Marcello was lost to the no man's land between laughing and crying, unleashing a flood of expletives that drowned out Shiro's agonised groan. The magazine flipped shut and skidded away on the counter. "Fine, fine: what do I have to do to get rid of you?"

Benedetto smiled and motioned to Shiro, who plucked the ID card out of his chest pocket once more.

"Lower Second Class – gotcha. Handgun. What model do you use?"

"What have you got?"

The exorcist paused for a moment, then turned towards the door in the back and called out: "Cog! We've got a guy here who wants to look at the–"

"Give him an M1911 and send him off!"

"Shove that M1911 someplace, I'm letting him in! This way." He waved Shiro over to a hinged section of the counter and led him to the door in the back. "He's a 60 year old man in a 30 year old man's body: grumpy and–"

"I hear you!"

"I know!" Marcello shouted back and unlocked the door.

Ah, yes. _Yes_. Let the people above marvel at Michelangelo's gilded dome and Pietá: Shiro was having his own religious experience in the Vatican's armoury. Row upon row of shelves greeted him, running in every direction and loaded with every firearm ever made.

" _I need to upgrade my license to cover rifles._ " Shiro glanced over the rack of shiny black ArmaLite rifles – _rows_ of ArmaLite rifles. He bit his lip, eyeing every item that passed as he reverently strode down the aisle with a boyish grin. If he rose a few degrees in Aria he would gain access to rocket launchers, too. Fucking _rocket launchers_.

No. No rocket launchers and no rifles. Handgun; he was there for a handgun. The SIG P220 model he had used in Japan winked at him with confident familiarity from the topmost shelf. But where was the fun in that?

He browsed the inventory at leisure, occasionally picking up a firearm and testing its grip and feel. Some spoke to him, others not so much as whispered; it's a special thing, the language between a gun and the hands that hold it. Eventually, he found one that settled in quite nicely. A simple design. Nothing extra, nothing wasted. The question now was how it performed.

"Cog?"

"Use your eyes. Unless you're blind. In which case my boot can help you find the door."

Shiro located the owner of the voice at the far end of a side aisle, where Cog's workbench pushed up against the wall like a frightened animal. The only thing sticking up over the chair's backrest was a battered, blue baseball cap with a white leaf. He didn't so much as turn around.

"I like the grip on this one." Shiro turned the weapon over, testing the weight that shifted comfortably in his hand. Walther P1. "How does it perform in the field?"

"Hell if I know." To properly underline how much he didn't care, Cog remained hunched over whatever he was working on.

"You're the guy who works in armoury, why _don't_ you know?"

"'Cause I'm the guy who works in the armoury. You want to know what a gun's like you take it down to the range. They're all broken in and ready for service. Ammo's in the marked containers on the shelf." Cog stabbed a thumb over his shoulder at the shelf in question; Shiro ignored it in favour of trotting over to see what he was doing.

Cog's workbench was a topography of piles. Piles of fittings, piles of nails, piles of rubber rings, two screwdrivers for every screw known to man: it was the mountain kingdom of a chaotically organised mind. On the relatively free surface in the middle lay parts of a gun, each neatly aligned with the other.

Cog reached for the lamp to get better light. Shiro wouldn't have identified it as a lamp in the first place if he hadn't done that. It looked like a metal version of a vacuum cleaner hose fitted with a bulb and a primitive plastic… parabola TV flower. Cog pressed at the plastic petals to spread them wider for a broader light cone. Only then did Shiro notice how dark his skin was – too dark for an Italian.

"Don't recognise that model. What gun is it?" He stepped closer – to look at the project on the workbench, but also to sneak a glance at Cog's features.

"One designed by apes shitting on a notepad." Cog unceremoniously snatched a loupe from the desk for a closer look. "AutoMag. Some genius wanted to pack the power of a .44 Magnum into a semi-automatic and what they got was this piece of junk. Heavy, hard recoil, as reliable as explosive diarrhoea. And I'm supposed to 'fix' this train wreck 'cause some Dragoon can't be persuaded to use an actual gun."

"You know a lot about guns for someone who doesn't use them."

"Unlike the baboons that made this I can tell if a design's gonna work or not." He turned the barrel pipe slowly before the loupe, squinting his free eye shut. "I should give the guy a club instead. Same use, more reliable." A sudden grunt, something that sounded like a curse. "Or I'll just club _him_ when he comes back. The moron polished the barrel pipe! No wonder it's got the hiccups! Probably thought he was gonna be a handyman and fix it himself. Idiot!"

Cog set the barrel down, and the loupe, and pulled off his baseball cap with a groan. A black stump of a pony tail jutted out from his neck, matching the stocky eyebrows and the meagre spread of hairs that attempted to be a moustache. Cog pressed his hands to his face and groaned again, as if the first time hadn't quite expressed his feelings about this, and kept groaning as his hands slid down the length of his features. Dark eyes, dark hair, wide nose; he was from somewhere in East Asia, no doubt about it.

"Where're you from?"

"Canada." Cog hitched the baseball cap back on with the bill pointing down his neck. "Toronto, if that tells you anything."

There was a moment in which Shiro's brain lost all footing: like a rugby player hit with a surprise slide tackle.

"You're hafu", he blurt out once his brain had found its feet again – almost found its feet again. "You're half…" How did you translate hafu to Italian? "Halfblood."

Cog uttered a snort that might have been a laugh but could just as easily have been a huff.

"Mother's from Vietnam. You?"

"Both my parents were Japanese. Alexander Fujimoto, by the way."

Another snort. Perhaps it was Vietnamese. Did Vietnamese sound like that?

As had happened quite often during the short time they'd known each other, Cog didn't care that Shiro was confused; his attention was on the Walther P1.

"Take the Beretta 92 as well while you're at it. They're pretty much the same gun. Some don't like the casings flying to the left on the P1 and some don't like the mag release on the Beretta – you'll figure it out." He was about to begin his salvage work on the AutoMag barrel when he halted. "On second thought…" He threw a glance at the gun again. "Just take the P1. Purebloods have too small hands for a good grip on a Beretta." He snorted again. "James Nguyen, by the way."

This time Shiro was 90% sure the snort was a laugh.

* * *

Shiro left the armoury comforted by the weight of the P1 on his hip. The Beretta had been nice too but he liked the slightly heavier trigger on the P1. That was the story he told Cog, at least.

Next were the barracks of the Swiss Guard. A very prestigious institution, the Swiss Guard, with a long and noble history within the Vatican _but_ , Benedetto stressed, not as long as that of the Order of the True Cross: True Cross was the oldest Catholic military Order still in existence.

As the Pope's personal miniature army, the Swiss Guard had their barracks within the walled complex of the Vatican, next door to the Papal apartments and St Peter's Square where they could respond to threats on a minute's notice. The Guard and the Order shared some training facilities, where they were drilled in martial arts together – mostly it looked like every other gym Shiro had ever seen, with machines and weights and large mats that could be laid out on the floor for sparring practice. A few times per year the two forces had bigger joint exercises, to make sure they cooperated well if ever there arose a situation where they had to team up to defend the Vatican.

"They're tough, the Swiss, but fair. Really good people to work with. I would tell you who your supervisor will be but I can't for the life of me remember his name. It's like all Swiss Guards have the same name. Well, small wonder: they're all brothers. In arms." Benedetto broke into hearty chortle and nudged Shiro with an elbow. Or maybe that was the presence of his janitor co-worker in Japan briefly flitting past to salute a kindred spirit. "It is a little bit like that, though: very tightly knit group. It's usually you Dragoons who tend to bond well with the Guard, with your firearms and firearm things."

Romans and their romantic attachment to Italian fencing.

"I think they just don't wanna be martyred by their colleagues."

Benedetto approved, if physical contact was a sign of approval: he patted Shiro on the shoulder again. He lacked little finger on his left hand, too – god knew how many other injuries were hidden beneath his robes. Each exorcist Meister carried its advantages and its risks, but to be a Knight you had to be a special brand of fearless. There was no distance between exorcist and demon, no safety margin for a missed shot or mispronounced verse: just you and death with a metre of sharp steel between. Yeah, Knights were–

"Bucketheads", Benedetto chuckled in that particular way people chuckle when they recall good memories of youth. "Ah, but we were young. Young men full of competition and bravado. We called them Shitters in return – because they were stationary, you know? Sitting still to take aim. It depends on how much Dragoon you've got in you but you might need to unlearn a few habits. On the upside though, there are no bad Knights, so no need to worry: there's only good Knight or good night."

"Don't you ever stop?" Shiro groaned.

"Wait till you have kids", he smiled; "then you will understand."

With those words Benedetto pushed open another door, into a spacious hall. It looked like a church but definitely wasn't – the hall had the smell of cool, plastered stone mixed with that special smell that comes from sweat that has been shed and swabbed up for many, many years.

"This is where we will meet tomorrow, to introduce you to swords training. The sun will be on the right side then." Benedetto pointed at the far end: a round stained glass window gazed proudly down at them from behind the lacework of a safety net. "She's a true beauty, our Holy Mother." The wicker hat rested respectfully in his hands as his head nodded at the image. "This wasn't meant to be a training hall, I'm guessing you can tell. Those ceiling beams are a later addition, same with the wall bars and those shelves over there."

The echoes of their footsteps tiptoed over the plaster arcs as Benedetto mixed small talk with information about what Shiro could expect tomorrow. There would be no sparring, and no need to bring equipment: everything they needed was already there and they would mainly be going over the rules of fencing, weapon maintenance and common fencing sense.

"That's all you need to know for now. We'll save the details for when everyone is here."

"Roger." Shiro tore his eyes from the badminton shuttle wedged in between the rail of the climbing ropes and the ceiling beam they were anchored to. Benedetto held the door – which also looked like it had been intended for a chapel – for him. "What about the other nicknames? Or the rivalry was just between Dragoons and Knights?"

"No no no: there will always be rivalry among young men. Arias were Bookworms, obviously; Tamers were Witches – you will find many who carry amulets against the Evil Eye when they work with Tamers. We Italians are very superstitious, you'll notice. The Doctors were the only ones who didn't get any nicknames: young and feisty and with all the kinds of stupid that come with that, we still knew better than to mock the ones who held our lives in their hands."

Hold people's lives in his red stained hands – no, not going there, not going to let those sputtering memories flare up in flame. Shiro fished a cigarette out of his chest pocket before it was even a conscious thought.

"Smoke?"

"My doctor says I should cut down but he can stuff it – it keeps the steam up in an old man. Thank you." Benedetto helped himself to one and let Shiro light up for both of them.

"I'm no stranger to superstition – Japan's full of it", he said around the cigarette as he put the lighter away. "Some pretty logical, like saying you'll go blind if you don't eat up you rice as a way to make kids finish their food. Others are just random crap, like it's bad luck to turn twenty-five or forty-two but if a cat waves at you it means good fortune."

"Lucky numbers! Yes those are important here, too. Thirteen is very lucky: seventeen is bad luck. It looks like a man hanging from the gallows, you know? If you go to a bigger hotel they might actually have removed the numbers for the seventeenth floor!"

"Same thing in Japan." Shiro blew the smoke out with a smile: Italy might not be _that_ different after all. "Many elevators don't stop at the fourth or ninth floor. The numbers are too similar to 'death' and 'suffering'."

"See, see? No matter what we look like, we humans are more or less the same", Benedetto rumbled heartily and used the cigarette – pinched between index and middle finger – to prick the air for emphasis. "We have our ways and we stick to them for no reason other than that we always have. Humans will always have vices, too. Of one kind or another." He dragged a long, pleasant breath on the cigarette. "So if it's nothing more harmful than a smoke and a friendly jibe, I say let humans have their vices."

"Just what your doctor wants to hear, I'm sure."

"It should be! I'm no good to him if I'm in perfect health, am I?"

It was nice to laugh; it was nice to laugh with someone who seemed to have a guffaw always just waiting to jump out and dance between the stone arcs, and Shiro could see why the Vatican chose someone like Benedetto Battista to welcome transfers. He was the colonnades of St Peter's: arms wide open, embracing the world.

"That's right, you were going to take Doctor classes, too, weren't you?" he recalled with a delighted gleam in the eye. "On top of working and studying for priest. Busy, busy – what's at the end of these ambitions, Amadeo? Arc Knight? Paladin?"

"No specific goal, really. Just feel like the more versatile I am, the better." It sounded empty and insipid as the over-chewed gum it was, his standard response to that question. "Name's Alexander, though."

"My bad! Alexander, Alexander – hah, Alexander the Great!" Benedetto looked like he had thought of something very clever and was very pleased with himself. "You know, when they said a transfer was coming from Japan I expected somebody shorter. The younger generations must be quite a bit taller, no? I used to work with a countryman of yours some twenty years ago and as I live and breathe, they had to commission a tailor to make him custom robes."

Whatever Benedetto was about to say after that vanished in a cough. Then the smell reached Shiro, and he started coughing as well. Rotten eggs – sulphur. That meant demons – that _usually_ meant demons but there was absolutely nothing Shiro could sense that spoke of demons. His hand was on the gun in an instant, his eyes flitting right and left to locate the source of the disturbance. The stench came from the corridor they had just walked past; instants later, a woman's voice echoed out of that same corridor in thickly accented Italian:

"Amit! For the love of Mary's cunt quit whatever it is you're doing!"

"What's going on?" Shiro breathed through his uniform sleeve, as far as that was possible.

"Nothing they can't take care of. I say we're done with the Barracks – come, let's meet up with your teammates at the Gianicolo terminal."

* * *

Why they were meeting the other exorcists at a bus stop was a mystery until Shiro saw the terminal. It lay right next to an open air sports complex housing both a basketball court, a volleyball court, and a small football field. It also didn't have a shred of shade to offer. Merely walking across it to the football field Shiro could feel red dust settle in the film of moisture forming at his neck. The four men waiting for them had done the only sensible thing and discarded their heavy robes: then one of them had decided that was enough sensibility for one day and had taken up juggling a football. His shirt had gone from white to a rusty pink that glued to his back.

"We usually group transfers together as a team", Benedetto told him as they approached. "It's less complicated than finding placement for them in existing teams. You will have Italians in your team as well, of course – we have people transferring from exorcist cells in other cities, too. One from the Veneto region, one from Florence, and one from Molise, if I remember. Oh yes, and one is from here in Rome."

"Welcome!" The young man that waved at them was rather short, and sported a meticulously tamed flurry of chestnut brown curls. "We were starting to worry you had gotten lost. Where do you have the rest?"

"Delayed!" Benedetto shouted back. "Some trouble with the weather at Heathrow. Our Brits will be arriving around noon tomorrow."

"Aaah but sir, how will we play a match with only five players?" He splayed his hands palm upwards: the winning grin, however, said he had already found a solution. "If only we had someone who could fill in on short notice."

"You don't think I can tell when someone is trying to string me along, Capponi?"

"Not stringing anyone along, sir." Yes he was. With his whole unabashed face. "Just saying it would be nice to have an extra player or two."

"You need to work on your politician face: people shouldn't be able to tell when you're lying." Benedetto returned the smile wholeheartedly. "But you could use another player. Well then! You introduce yourselves, I'll stretch these old bones for a bit and then I say we start!"

Benedetto broke into a light jog towards the goal posts, unbuttoning his robes as he did. The short guy smiled and offered his hand to Shiro. "Flavio Capponi, your go-to man for everything you need to know about Rome – just say the word and I'll hook you up wherever you want."

"Alexander Fujimoto, knows nothing about Rome", he said with a smile quirking the corner of his mouth.

"We'll fix that for you, my friend." He patted Shiro reassuringly on the shoulder. "Now, since he's too busy to introduce himself", he gestured at the man who was still juggling the ball, "this is my right hand blessing and burden: Gianpiero Sacchetti. Florence thoroughbreed, you can see it in the weak chin he's trying to conceal with that beard; also look at the bounce in his step and his fine motor control. This is a hallmark trait of all distinguished Florentine families: allowed their ancestors to outrun hostile mobs."

Shiro wasn't sure if Flavio was introducing a friend or selling a horse.

"If all he's good for is running I might as well get a bike." The tall guy next to Flavio was in no doubt about the situation. Arms crossed, he eyed Gianpiero with the sceptical gaze of a buyer who wants his money's worth. "I'm looking for muscle, something that's fit for hard work and combat – this critter looks more like hair work and cocktails. Can he at least carry equipment?" Himself he looked like he could carry his whole team's equipment – possibly slung around his bull neck, and possibly hanging from his prominent ears.

"That depends, my good sir. Does he carry equipment well? Yes. Is he well equipped? No – and nobody grieves this more than I. It makes him terribly difficult to sell and nothing is worse for business than a dissatisfied customer – which is just about every girl in Florence."

The guy with the ears had a hard time keeping his face straight – not to mention Gianpiero had a hard time keeping his juggling together.

"But my dear Capponi, anything can be sold with the right marketing! He's not well equipped – so?" Ears guy swung his arms out. "He has other talents. Make the girls want him for what he has, not scorn him for what he doesn't have!"

"But what does he have?" Flavio was despairing: his eyebrows drew up worried creases over his eyes, his hands flew wildly in the air, his voice danced a staccato cadence over the syllables. "Look at him! The looks of a roasted eggplant and the brains of one too – the only thing he's good at is playing with balls!" Gianpiero suffered a snickering fit that almost made him drop his ball. "I tell him 'G, why do you keep doing this? What would your mother say if she knew you were wasting your life in such ways?' Sure, he handles balls very skilfully, but what will it amount to? All those hours of polishing his technique, do girls even have what it takes to appreciate it?"

If there was any talent Gianpiero had, besides playing with balls, it was self control. Flavio's oration cracked the rest of them up one after the other, and it was only after a jibe about Gianpiero's father teaching him to play that his control on the ball faltered, then failed, then he sent it flying at Flavio's head. It was a miss but he ducked reflexively anyway; Gianpiero used the split second to throw himself at him.

"I'm sorry you had to see this – very sad story", Gianpiero panted as he struggled to keep his grip on the laughing Flavio. "It's his mouth, he can't control it. When he lapses into fits like this you have to restrain him." Gianpiero was taller, and could quite easily wrap his arm around the neck of his friend. "He's been like this since he was born. It's a fatal condition: doctors didn't believe he would live this long." When informed of his fatal condition Flavio heaved up some rather grotesque gargling noises. "Ah, there it is – the final breath. Easy, easy, I'm right here…"

He eased the spasming Flavio down on the ground, cradled in his arms like a dying maiden. He hacked and gasped, clinging to Gianpiero's shirt in a death grip as he struggled to convey his final words.

"G… promise me… when I'm gone…" He rasped, choked; the quivering whisper cost him every ounce of strength he had left. "Take good care… of my balls…"

"I promise, Flavio." Gianpiero had a god-given stone face. "I will treat your balls as if they were my own. I will feed them and clothe them and raise them, until they are full-grown dicks just like their father."

It was, by far, the most entertaining death either of them had witnessed. The ice was expertly broken, and introductions carried on without delay.

"Larry Brooks, Intermediate Second Class Dragoon." The tall guy with the ears had big hands and a strong grip; Shiro felt his knuckles roll against each other when Larry squeezed. He didn't know what that meant. A test? A challenge? Larry's features were an odd mix of signals: an open smile, two guarded eyes.

"Alexander Fujimoto, Lower Second Class Dragoon and Aria." He squeezed the hand back, feeling the knuckles move under Larry's skin too.

"Welcome on the team, Al." He seemed content with the response, at least. The ears didn't actually stand out that much, it was his haircut that highlighted them: a tight shave that only left a trimmed patch of brown hair on top of his head.

The last guy to introduce himself was a tall, gangly creature with pitch black hair and glasses. When Shiro offered his hand the man clasped it in both of his and pressed it, as if Shiro were a long lost friend he had finally reunited with.

"Welcome, Alexander. I'm Remo Di Luca. It's a pleasure to have you with us", he said with a smile so warm and sincere Shiro just waited for the moment he would drop the act and burst out laughing. Or lean in and kiss him. He kinda hoped for the former.

Turned out it would be neither. The moment dragged out and the awkwardness increased exponentially until Shiro got out a limping 'pleasure to meet you, too'.

"Okay, boys!" Flavio clapped his hands together twice to get their attention. "How many of you can play football?"

A rhetorical question. Every Italian could play football: it was in their genes, just like hand waving and coffee drinking. Their souls were probably football shaped, too.

Odd ones out were Larry and Shiro, the poor misguided souls who believed "playing football" just meant being able to hit a ball with a foot because really how hard could that be? Thus the teams were split into Flavio-Remo-Larry and Gianpiero-Benedetto-Shiro to make them as equal as possible.

Shiro proved to be a fantastic football player – for the other team. If he didn't accidentally pass them the ball himself, Remo or Flavio could just stroll past and it would magnetically transfer itself to their feet. Larry was marginally better but seemed to prefer playing with invisible teammates over on the volleyball court. The times he got the ball it quickly got shot off the field, which meant it was Gianpiero who got it since he really did run like the wind. Furthermore, Florentines apparently didn't need breathing.

"You go guard the cage, Amadeo", Benedetto puffed, lifting his hat and wiping a napkin across his forehead. The sun was frying the ground, and they had failed yet another spurt across the field to intercept Remo's offense. With only three players in each team they hadn't spared anyone to stand in the goal. "Me and him can hold the field."

"You already hold the field." Shiro spat on the ground. No matter what he did, his mouth tasted like dust. " _I could use a bloody Saint Marcello._ " He squinted at a Gianpiero who bounced impatiently on his toes, waiting for Benedetto to initiate the next charge. "Right. You and race horse go give 'em hell."

"That's the spirit!" Benedetto patted him in the back. "Oh, and don't spit."

"Huh?"

"Spitting: it's offensive." The Knight grinned and patted him again. "Welcome to Italy."

Not that they scored any more goals than before – they didn't let in as many in, at least. Shiro's reflexes made him a better goalkeeper than field player, although he still missed many of Flavio's feints. Benedetto and Gianpiero pushed themselves hard, but without Shiro shooting bad passes they worked out a chemistry in their two-man play. There was a good amount of shouting across the field – approving cheers, merry jibes, laughter – and when Benedetto scored a clean goal over the shoulder of an astonished Larry, Shiro found himself carried away cheering and applauding, too.

It was almost like that one day years ago, when another team of exorcists had pooled their forces in a warm gym hall to nick sandbags from a dökkálfr. When they had learnt each other's strengths, and their own: when they had learnt to use those strengths as a team.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Hafu** is a word that came about in the 70's. It replaced older, taboo words for someone who is half-Japanese, though in this context Shiro uses it about biracials in general. I trust most of you know that Japan has a very xenophobic and "race aware" culture.
> 
>  **Firearms**  
>  Firearms is the easiest thing I've ever had to research. 0_0 I knew absolutely nothing about guns before I did, but every gun geek and his dog (it's always a he) has a youtube channel where they walk you through every little part of the gun, its history, its design, its maintenance, its horoscope and favourite film. (It creeps me out, okay?)
> 
> The M1911 was the standard handgun in the US army at this time.
> 
> The P1 is, for all practical purposes, a Walther P38 like the ones manufactured for the German army during WWII: it just went through some minor changes, including the name, in 1957 when it was no longer produced in Germany. The P38 was, as many things made in Germany, a little piece of mechanical art. It was cheap, it was light, it was reliable, and the design was so ahead of its time that it became the "grandfather" of prominent modern gun designs.
> 
> The Beretta 92 is one of the guns that drew inspiration from the Walther P38. The big differences are pretty much what Cog described: casings are discharged to the left on a P38/P1 and to the right on a Beretta; magazine release is at the bottom of the grip on a P38/P1 and by the thumb next to the trigger on a Beretta. And the Beretta grip is wider – which can be a problem if you have smaller hands than what the manufacturer had in mind. (Beta reader chips in that this is a problem with every handtool, like electric screwdrivers and stuff. They're designed for (Western?) male hands.)
> 
> The AutoMag is something of a black sheep. Either people love it or they dislike it. It was one of the most powerful handguns in its time but… let's just say it had Issues caused by a rushed and not well thought through design. It's allegedly a fun thing to fire, if you like guns that are powerful and look powerful, but it's not reliable to actually fire: which should be a priority if you intend to use it in life or death situations.
> 
> What the AutoMag guy has done is to be over-enthusiastic about his gun maintenance. There's "by-products" from shooting, little particles of metal and gunpowder that stick on the involved surfaces. Those need to be removed, manually – not with some dremel or other mechanical polishing tool, they do the job too well and you will be polishing off metal that's part of the gun. Then the parts won't properly align with each other anymore.
> 
> I learnt a useful thing about ammunition, too (and that Katou pays attention to detail even there). If you read chapter 3, where Yukio is replenishing supplies in the exorcist shop, you'll notice he buys silver bullet jackets. Not silver bullets, as for example Hellsing will use. And when you think about it, it's obvious: silver is a light metal. A bullet of solid silver won't go very far or have much impact: thus it's only the bullet jacket that's made of silver, while the weighted core is probably lead.
> 
> Stuff I never knew about guns either include "breaking in" a gun. The term explains itself rather well: before you can consider a gun ready for use you have to shoot X number of bullets with it (usually in the hundreds). That way the barrel will get smoothed to perfection by the bullets and make firing easy. Same thing with all the moving parts of the gun: they slide against each other, shape each other to a perfect fit. Once that breaking in is done, you can put the gun away and be sure that whenever you pick it up again, the parts will slide smoothly and you will experience a minimum of mechanical screw ups.
> 
>  **Academy architecture**  
>  There's influences from both Mexico and Italy in the architecture of the academy – you get a better view of it in the Blue Exorcist movie or artwork from it. Definitely Greek/Roman/Etruscan columns.
> 
>  **Football, soccer, and American football**  
>  As you should have noticed by now, I'm European. And as you really should have noticed by now, this part of the fic is set in Europe. Ergo, when I write "football" it will be the European kind of football: the game where people run around in shorts and t-shirts and only touch the ball with their feet and heads. As is cleverly hinted at by the combination of "foot" and "ball".
> 
> If I ever talk about the American football game, which has very little to do with feet touching balls, I will call it American football. The exception is if it's Larry talking about it, which I'm sure he will.
> 
> Soccer? Don't be ridiculous, nobody here calls it soccer. It's football.


	87. To forge a Knight

Rome was best in the morning. When the city still yawned and stretched the sleep out of its streets, when the asphalt swathed itself in night's cool blanket and hadn't yet been bothered by the baking rays of the sun. The air was better, too. When he showered yesterday his snot had been a greyish red – dust. Dust and that particular oily air pollution that marks a big city.

Shiro picked the straightest route to his destination: Via Venti Settembre towards the Quirinale, and from there a meandering trail to the Vatican itself. In contrast to what the map suggested the street was a small one, and flanked with – well, nothing, really. A long, grey corridor of nothing.

" _Here I'd hoped to browse for goat postcards._ " Shiro rubbed a whisper of sleep out of his eye and took another bite out of the loaf of bread he carried. He had opened the cupboard today again, as if tea other than chamomile would have grown out of the shelf overnight. " _I should ask them to send tea when I write home._ "

But something _had_ happened overnight. Despite the nightmares, Shiro had woken up light. Fresh. Excited. He had worn a smile out of bed as his toes met with the peculiar texture of the carpeting, had glanced out the window at the ugly insurance company building and felt this day was one of boundless promises. Everything seemed so… easy.

Blank slate. Fresh start. _Great_ start.

He smiled again, a grin that crept up on his face unnoticed and stayed like it was the most natural thing in the world. Yesterday had been great, and he was determined to make today a worthy successor.

* * *

The sun was beginning to gain strength and the heavy doors of the church that wasn't a church creaked when Shiro pushed them open. It still fooled you for a second – the grandeur, the stone arches, the echoing noise and even - at this hour - the ethereal air of sunlight falling through the rose window, dotting the definitely-not-church linoleum floor with hundreds of vibrant specs. If not for the blue-and-red blot on there, coloured shadow of Holy Mary, it could almost have looked like a disco or night club. Shiro mentally slapped himself. Playing the part of seminarian was going to take some serious reprogramming or he would blurt out something very un-Catholic one of these days. The irony wasn't lost on him: a man pretending to be holy in a training hall masquerading as a church.

"Morning!" Flavio raised a hand from where he and – presumably – Gianpiero were testing out the fencing helmets by rapping each other on the head with what seemed to be wooden swords. Not quite bokken but something like it. "Nice sword!"

"More effective than yours at least!" Shiro wiggled the rough third he had left of the bread loaf. "Goes straight through the gut." He grinned. "While you two just stand there giving each other morning wood."

That feeling, tossing jokes back and forth and laughing together: Shiro let it saturate him inside and out.

"How do you like my morning wood in the face, G?" Flavio guffawed and swung his sword at the opponent's mask, but Gianpiero skipped back just before it hit.

"Can't tell, it's too short to reach", he said as he removed the equipment from his head. "Damn it gets warm in those. Toss me that water bottle, Alexander. Not bringing any water?" Gianpiero asked as he caught the bottle Shiro had picked up from the bench.

"No. I looked for stores along the way but didn't see any."

"You know what you need, my man? A city tour." Flavio tapped him on the shoulder with his morning wood. "Just let me know when you're free, I'll show you the stores, how to dodge the tourist throngs, the best bars, the best restaurants – or should I say the cheapest ones?" He flicked a look and a smirk at the bread loaf. "You have enough to eat, or?"

"Yeah, but my landlady seems to think I don't."

Shiro related the whole story to them. If he hadn't snuck out as early as he did he would have been force-fed a three course breakfast that would have come up again during training: if it was one thing his landlady knew about young men, it was that they needed plenty of food and were congenitally incapable of cooking.

Having somebody cook for him was actually pretty great, in itself – but did she _have_ to treat him like he was five years old? Shiro had been verbally filleted when he came home yesterday (for shedding sand in her hallway: he hadn't even _meant_ to, that red dust just clung to everything he wore) and sent off to the shower with vigorously upset hand motions (for stinking like a donkey's balls, which he couldn't argue with, but he would have showered _anyway_ ), and it wouldn't have surprised him if she'd knocked on the bathroom door and asked if he needed help wiping his bum. When he came out of the shower he had discovered that it was all a clever ruse to hijack his groceries and that Queen Goblin was making supper for him.

Modugno. Her name was Modugno, he had to remember at least that.

"What, so in Japan you cook for yourself?"

"I lived alone back home, it was either that or starve. If you live with family obviously your mum or wife would cook."

"Man, that's harsh", Flavio grimaced. "You can drink from my bottle today, then we'll show you the nearest grocery store. Speaking of harsh – G, three new reported this morning."

"And they're from the same date?"

"Ye-up. No connection, the usual. You were right. Something really weird is going on." Flavio waved a couple of circles with his sword, warming up his wrist. "You've been briefed about it, or no?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about", Shiro admitted.

"People going missing in Rome. As of today there's 84 cases reported and more keep coming in. It wouldn't be much to be excited about _but_ here's the good part: they all vanished simultaneously, four days ago."

"June 17th?" That's when his plane landed in Rome... "And there's no pattern?"

"Nope. The police sends us copies of their reports, interviews with families and such – the missing are young and old, male and female, mechanics and teachers and shopkeepers and housewives–"

"–live in different parts of town", Gianpiero filled in while keeping a steady eye on the water bottle he was balancing on the tip of his outstretched sword.

"Yeah, and that." Flavio nodded in his friend's direction. "Nobody has taken responsibility for it so far, neither the Red Brigades nor Front Line nor the Magliana gang."

"The what?"

"He's the one who knows nothing." Gianpiero had abandoned his bottle to the floor and was trying to balance the sword upright on the tip of his forefinger.

"Then let me enlighten you, my friend. The Red Brigades are Communist filth that want to ruin Italy. Robberies, kidnappings, assassinations, drug trafficking – they do anything to 'free' Italy from corporate capitalism." The toxicity in Flavio's voice was impossible to miss, and the sharpness of his body language made it quite clear what he would do if he got his hands on members of the Red Brigades. "Front Line are more of the same. The Magliana is– Have you seen _The Godfather_? No? But you've heard of the mafia, at least? The Magliana gang is a crime syndicate. Not Rome's biggest but its most vicious. They're also good at making people 'disappear' – though why on earth they would target the wife of a garbage man in Trastevere..." Flavio threw his arms in the air with a face of pure puzzlement. "It would make more sense if there were demons involved but so far the Order's investigations have turned up nothing."

"You lost me at freeing Italy by robbing banks and selling drugs. There's zero logic in that."

"Oh but it's _Communist_ logic – you can't get that confused with _actual_ logic. In order to build the perfect Communist society you must first destroy the society that exists, because it's built around capitalism."

"You're going to establish a Communist state?" The burly figure of Larry Brooks had joined them. Up close Shiro had to wonder how he got in and out of those t-shirts, or if he had simply put one on when he was fourteen and never taken it off.

"But of course! Don't you see his beard?" Flavio rubbed at the centimetre long stubble on Gianpiero's chin and cheeks – viciously, as if he were polishing a wooden board. "Clearly a Marxist. And Alexander carries Mao's little red in his chest pocket wherever he goes."

"And together we are the Communist Castanet Comrades!" Gianpiero announced and began a bizarre song and dance number that involved snapping his fingers rhythmically above his head to imitate castanets.

" _I don't know what's wrong with these people._ " Shiro laughed and laughed, and Flavio and Larry laughed, and Larry picked a pair of drumsticks out of his jeans pocket and began accompanying on a fencing helmet – and the dance hall church came to mind and shot a new burst of laughter through his chest. " _I don't know what the hell we're doing but I love it._ "

"Boys, boys, save some energy for class!" Benedetto seemed a lot older when he wore gym clothes than when he walked about in full uniform. The wicker hat was unfit in Holy Mary's presence, and without it the bald crown of his head shone like a giant egg in the nest of short-cropped brown curls. The uniform had hidden his belly, too. Most of his bulk was muscle, no doubt about that, but age tended to land around the middle.

"I see Amadeo and Steven have arrived, too. Good morning, good morning~ Changing rooms are through those doors – the green ones. Did you happen to bring a black shirt, by any chance?"

"Good morning. Eh, no." Shiro doubted he even owned a black shirt. "Is that a problem?"

"Not at all, not at all – when out of uniform, we try to at least uphold the same colour scheme, that's all. Do try and find yourself some, though, or you'll keep being asked about it. We only wear the full gear during sparring; I will explain it all when we get started. Go change now," he urged them with hands fluttering in the direction of the doors. "Chop chop!"

Shiro felt oddly childlike while changing clothes. The wooden benches and clothing hooks in the changing room reminded him of gym hours in middle school. The muted chatter and ricocheting noises from the training hall, too.

"You're from China, then?" Larry asked conversationally.

"No, Japan." Seriously? _China_? "And you're... a drummer?"

"I thought you were gonna ask where I'm from!" he laughed. "Yeah, I played a bit back home in the States – Phoenix, Arizona, mostly. Grew up in a small farming community just outside town and used to hitch a ride in on my uncle's truck when he delivered produce. We had nothing out there but cattle, cacti, and citrus – and roses, fuck me, we had enough roses to feed all the herds in Arizona and still have enough to give you that rose garden Lynn Anderson never promised you", he chuckled. Somehow he had slipped out of his t-shirt, and with that a tattoo came into view on his left shoulder. A red devil holding the ace of diamonds. "Oh, yeah. The devil on my shoulder." He patted the arm Shiro's eyes had landed on. "And his business rival." Larry turned, showing his other shoulder: an angel clasping her hands in prayer over a cross. "Got her made in San Diego about half a year after I got my spirit wound in 1973. You might say I'm a late starter in this whole exorcist business, but then again the road through life is crooked more often than straight. I am where I'm meant to be, that's what matters: that I'm grateful for. She reminds me of that."

"Your Italian is amazing." Overall, Shiro was amazed that anyone could talk so much about so little in such a short time. He did little more than hum and nod while Larry went on to tell him, in practically accent-less Italian, how he had always had a talent for language – he had learnt Spanish from Hispanic kids when he was little, knew a word or two in an Apache dialect, and so on.

* * *

"Hey, He-who-knows-nothing! Heads up!"

The moment Shiro came out of the changing rooms, Flavio shouted at him. Reflex made him squat down on one knee and reach for a non-existent gun to counter the attack. Which was a quite useless reaction when it came to catching a gently tossed wooden sword. The clattering noise made everyone turn and stare at him.

"Somebody needs to work on catching." Flavio whistled as Shiro gathered himself, picking up the sword and returning to his feet.

"Somebody needs to work on aiming. Or are Italian Dragoons only good at hitting balls?"

Amused snickering erupted all around, evaporating the awkwardness of publically screwing up.

"Now that you mention it – hey G, have we tested those jockstraps yet?"

Jockstrap? Why was his Italian-Japanese pocket dictionary at home...

"Negative." Gianpiero seemed in no rush to get up from the bench and touch the things hanging in the open locker next to him. They looked like weird underwear with a reinforced cup to protect the front. Jockstraps. Right.

"Well it seems we have a volunteer. Toss me one, would you, so we can–"

"–quit messing around and finally get started!" Benedetto's rumbling voice interrupted. "Now that we're all here. Gather 'round, please. No sitting down." He shot a stern but kind look at Gianpiero and Larry, the latter jumping to his feet with astonishing speed for such a heavy creature. He assumed a stance so straight that Flavio felt the need to click his heels together and salute. That earned him a reprimanding look as well, and he lowered his arm with a somewhat apologetic expression... Though you could still see the cheeky glimmer in his eyes when he and his best friend exchanged looks. A grin tugged Shiro's lips. Hell-raisers. You could see it in everything they did, every look, every little move – _god,_ how he had missed this!

And somehow missed that they had been joined by a sixth person – assuming there was actually a person underneath all that ominous black combat gear Benedetto had next to him. Could be a training dummy of some sort.

"Now, I know I just told you we only wear the armour for sparring, but seeing as how some of you seemed a bit _confused_ about what exactly the gear is for, I figured we could start by showing you how it is _supposed_ to be used."

There was no real berating in the wide grin he shot at his two troublemakers, only intimate knowledge of what it was like to be a young Buckethead Knight with energy to spare. He then began naming the different parts of the outfit to the group and explaining their construction and function. Yes, there was a guy inside the combat gear: the armour responded to the light impact of Benedetto's different slaps, punches, and cutting motions at the fencing mask, cap, throat guard, padded jacket, armoured gloves, shoulder patches, upper arm, forearm, thigh, knee and shin protectors... It wasn't exactly what Shiro had imagined a knight of the Vatican to look like, especially after seeing the Swiss Guard. More like something special forces of the police might wear – maybe everyone who had warned him about Italians' romantic attachment to the classics had been completely wrong.

Meanwhile, Benedetto's run-down of equipment continued, through an endless number of names strung together on a list of the pros and cons and possible weak points of each item; the occasional anecdote of sparring matches slipped in, and complaints by previous students... All in rapid Italian. Shiro's brain was slowly crushed under the mountain of information that– No: correction. It was a medium sized pile of actual information drizzled on a Mt Fuji of pointless _blah blah_ , like chocolate sprinkles on ice cream, and his brain was liquefying from the effort of sifting out the useful parts.

Why hadn't people warned him about Italians doing _this_?

"Aaaand that's about quite enough on the aspect of protection, I suppose. My apologies if it's been a bit much to take in so early in the morning, but I have no idea how well versed any of you are in– well, any part of sword fighting, really." The teacher shrugged. "I have no clue how you'll be handling the materials provided to you, and with the initial impression some of you gave–", another glance towards Gianpiero and Flavio, who seemed determined to study the ceiling, "–I figured I should put safety first, and all that... So that now we can move on to more interesting objects: unless anyone objects?" He was so pleased with himself and his choir of pained groans: a parody of a demon tormenting lost souls. The shoulders and knees sagged on the demonstration guy as if somebody had dropped a weight on him. "Well, with that out of the way... Speaking of which, you can remove your gear now, Bambina." The armoured figure reached up to undo the velcro straps at the back of the mask. "Please take your practice swords in both hands, with your right hand closest to the blade–", Benedetto continued without missing a beat, but he had lost his audience completely.

The armour clasped the sides of the mask and carefully shook his head out of–  
_  
Her_ head.

It was a little like that time he had discovered that Sen and Midori were a couple. That initial feeling of "oh", when you realise how thick you've been, followed by a thought vacuum where all the times this ignorance has made you look stupid parade before your eyes. The awkward silence told him the others were experiencing the same thing. Not that she cared. The tall, blonde girl undid the many clasps and straps of the armour, shook off the padded jacket underneath, and checked that her hair was still pinned in place – bangs to the side and a long braid wrapped around her head. To her, the Knight students were nothing but slightly more dense air.

Benedetto looked suitably smug about their baffled expressions. Of course. He even held his hands still for a few miraculous moments to wallow in it. Then he proudly gestured at the new face in the group.

"May I introduce to you: my capable assistant and second – better – right hand, Fulmine Barbara Battista. Who also happens to be my daughter."

"...And one of the very few people whose name he actually remembers." She shot her father a loving, cheeky smirk. "Most of the time."

Benedetto attempted some sputtering noises in his defence while the girl donned a more polite smile and walked over to them, right hand stretched out as she approached Shiro.

"Fulmine."

She was taller than him. Goddammit.

"Sh– Alexander Fujimoto."

She seemed about their age – maybe a bit older. So hard to tell with European women. Her eyes were brown, the exact shame shade as her father's... But they looked at him with more curiosity than his had.

"Fucci...moto?" She cocked her head like a bird pondering whether it wants to pick up that grain or not. "You're from Japan?"

" _Hai_. Eh– Yes." He would _not_ start stumbling over his tongue just because – _specifically_ because – his instructor happened to be a babe.

"I see."

...whatever that meant? Spinal reflex suspicions jumped him as Fulmine let go of his hand without another word. Did she know? Had troublesome rumours followed him from Japan? Next in line was Flavio, who seemed somewhat confused about all this. There was a delay before he moved his arm to take her outstretched hand, and between Fulmine saying her name and he saying his. When she shook Gianpiero's hand there was no confusion at all: he flashed her a smile that said everything about his intentions. Larry looked sceptical more than anything else. When Fulmine returned to her father's side, his eyes followed her walk with a concerned look on his face.

Benedetto seemed to have noticed it too, because an understanding expression formed on his face as he continued the introduction: "As some of you, if not all of you, have noticed by now, I am not _completely_ able to wield a sword as I once did." He held up his hands. "To _account_ for missing _digits_ and _even out_ the _odds_ I figured I needed to _add_ some assistance to this _division_." He giggled.

This was... This was... so deliberate. And so terrible. God, just... _why_... Shiro couldn't keep himself from laughing. It wasn't even funny, it was just so _bad_ he had to do something not to implode. The old man himself had snickered more and more while he was still talking, so it wasn't like he was laughing _at_ him: they were simply–

Shiro glanced at Fulmine, and his mirth evaporated. She wore the face of one who wants to scream but doesn't. Won't. Can't...?

The look was gone in an instant when Benedetto slung an arm around his daughter's shoulders. He took a step forward with one foot, as if about to show her the world, fluttering his other arm to summon his next words: " _Mi angelo_ has been training ever since she was able to lift a sword, under my guidance and those of a few close friends of mine~ She was keen on continuing those studies, and since I am unfit to demonstrate certain techniques I reckoned she would be the perfect asset for our training. I'm sure you'll all find her a very valuable and competent mentor."

Much as he tried not to, Shiro eyed their assistant instructor up and down. Aside her height she didn't seem like much of a warrior. Hands clasped behind her back, gaze to the floor, an embarrassed swaying at her father's flattering words... His thoughts went to Midori, also a Knight, and the world of difference between this girl and the unabashed, uninhibited half-demon who had indeed been a very valuable and competent mentor to him.

"Right!" Benedetto's sudden clap was like a flip-switch on the mood. "Moving on. Next up: the things you will be needing that gear for. Everybody: swords." The group blinked awake and clutched their weapons the way their teacher had previously instructed. Well, almost everybody.

"Other way around, Amadeo."

Shiro looked at his hands. His left hand was at the cross beam at the handle, his right held the back end.

"Ah– I'm sorry, it just happens. ...And it's Alexander, actually."

"My bad, my bad. Are you left-handed?"

"Not really. Just in sword fighting I suppose. My previous teacher said it was better to use a grip that feeled natural to me."

"Hrmmm..." Shiro had the absurd impression that Benedetto was smelling his fingers, until he realised the teacher was merely plucking his moustache in thought. "Well, being able to use both hands as the dominant one on a sword is always an advantage – something I've regrettably failed to learn in time." He let go of the moustache and raised his left hand, the one only missing the pinkie, letting the remaining digits wiggle as he looked at them. "Still, I would advice you to fight right-handed to begin with. It's much easier to learn the proper techniques and practice that way, since you can use others as mirrors. You can mix grips later – I'll be assessing your current skill level first anyway, so please switch hands."

Shiro obediently changed his grip, cursing softly to himself in Japanese. In the meantime, Benedetto folded his hands behind his back and began a slow march along the line of youths.

"I will start all of you on the absolute basics, for two important reasons: first of all, as just stated, I have yet to get to know you. Your skill, your style, your individual strengths and weaknesses. It is simply the best way of making sure everybody has the same, necessary, elementary knowledge, without leaving any gaps. Second, because the Basics. Are. Everything." He made a sharp turn and gazed upon his students with a sternness nobody had expected. "And whoever thinks he is done practicing them: the door is over there."

Silence. Switch-flipping the mood seemed to be Benedetto's specialty – in both directions. Shiro half expected another horrible pun, but no. The man remained serious, looking far more like an army colonel than the jolly middle-aged man he met yesterday. When nobody seemed eager to question him or take their leave, the hard look left his eyes and he continued:

"The basics are what you, in the end, will always fall back upon. The only things that will always apply, in any situation, against any adversary – human or demonic. Some things may overlap with what you have heard before, some may be entirely new to you. Throughout this course we will handle many different techniques and many different weapons, including enchanted arms and bare hands, but you will all start out using the same weapon: a longsword, also called a European two-hander. This might already be new enough for some of you." His eyes darted towards Shiro's. "The reason we will be using this particular sword and not a one-handed blade – even though that is what most exorcists favour in the field – is to acquire a good base. You need to take as many factors as you can out of the equation: the more factors, the more chance you are screwing up somewhere... And the more difficult it is to trace back where exactly you went wrong. With both your hands in the same place it is much easier to focus on your overall posture and alignment, and much easier to correct it."

As he reached the end of the line, he extended his arms forwards and Fulmine stepped up, handing over one of two metal blades.

"These blunt weapons are designed purely for practice and are called feder swords. Their weight, balance, and construction is very close to a real one. The only difference apart from the blunt edge is that they have a thicker point at the end, to prevent breakage and injury when stabbing, and that they are made of a more flexible kind of steel." He jiggled the sword horizontally to show the wobbling tip, before turning it down and holding it out with his left hand, like a cross. "A quick run-down to make sure you all get what I'm talking about when I'm referring to a certain part of the weapon." His right index finger pointed at the different components as he ran his hand along the sword. "Pommel, grip, crossguard, blade. Roughly the first half of the blade is called the strong. This is used for defence. The other half, leading up to the tip, is the weak. This is used for attacks, and the sharpest part of any forged piece of arms." He moved the sword across his chest and placed the knob, or pommel, against his shoulder, with the tip resting on the floor. "A weapon should suit the person using it. No two swords are exactly alike. For a longsword the ideal length is somewhere between the top of your shoulder and your arm pit. Personally, I prefer the latter. The grip should be three or four hand-widths long, and one extra for the pommel. I usually go with three, but my daughter likes to have four." He shot a quick smile over at her, which was silently returned. Benedetto moved the blade horizontally again, rotating it a bit with his wrist, causing the coloured light from the window to leap into their eyes. "The edges are called the sharp, a very obvious name, the flat piece in between is called... well, the flat", he grinned sheepishly. Incapacity to cook might not be inherent in young men but damn if poor humour wasn't inherent in Knights. "Again, the sharp is used for attack, the flat for defence – defend with the sharp against an incoming strike and you'll risk getting the weapons stuck in each other. Do it often and your sword will turn into a saw – very inconvenient to fight with. This is one of the main reasons we use wooden swords for the better part of the lessons, at least at the start." He sent a smile at Flavio and Gianpiero that was equal parts knowing and reprimanding. "We _could_ charge enthusiastic young Knight aspirants with costs for battered materials, but that would make them a lot less enthusiastic – which is sometimes the only redeeming quality they have. "

Gianpiero quickly hid his wooden sword behind his back and Flavio whistled so over-the-top innocently no one could help but chuckle, but they both sneaked guilty looks at the fencing masks stacked in a crate in the corner.

"A good sword is balanced in such a way that it puts minimal strain on your wrist when holding it", Benedetto continued. He put out his right index and middle finger, like a pretend gun, and placed the flat of the blade on top of it, shuffling and shifting it with his left hand on the handle to find the right spot. "For a longsword, ideally, this is about a handbreadth from the crossguard." He let go of the weapon, which seesawed lightly on his outstretched fingers. "Too much weight at the tip and it won't be fast or accurate enough in most strikes; too much weight at the back and you'll find it hard to place precise stabs. One a side note, you should try to avoid touching a metal blade too much – the natural acids from your skin can cause corrosion. Once you get your big boy weapons, it's best to wipe them down with an oiled cloth after each training." With a flick of his wrist, he launched the weapon into the air, which made a slow somersault in front of him before he caught it by the grip with his right hand. It almost slipped – Shiro saw the quick, jumbling movements of the three digits to keep it under control – but overall it was a successful trick and Benedetto showed them a very wide, yellowed grin.

"Maybe when I retire I can still join the circus."

" _If you feel like losing a few more fingers._ " With Fulmine's earlier reaction in mind, Shiro was glad he hadn't blurt his thought ou–

"As long as you promise it won't be as a clown." Her father was hopeless but she loved him anyway: that was the message written all over her face when she shot him a cheeky smile.

"Either way I'd make a killing", he countered, and something in between a snort and a groan escaped the girl's mouth. Triumphantly, Benedetto turned to his students. "But in here, I will merely be the ringmaster. So let's put on a show! But, before I forget: the other reason we don't use the full gear and metal swords right off the bat.

It is much better to learn fighting in a slow and careful manner, rather than start with forcefully bashing each other at full speed. Fighting 'naked', as it were – fighting without armour – teaches you observation, precision, how a body works... It's also easier for me to see whether or not you are ruining your knees or bending too much forward. But most importantly, it doesn't render the other person a faceless dummy. It teaches you to recognise state of mind." He arched his back forwards a bit and looked each one of them in eyes in turn. "You are fighting another living being and should be aware of that _at all times_. Is it injured? Is it angry? Sad, frustrated, scared? Body language tells you a lot about how a person, or even a monster, is doing. Eyes even more so. You can always tell when someone is hurt, as long as you pay attention." He lowered his voice and spoke softer, causing them all to lean in a bit, ears pricked up, breath shallow. "You are here to become knights of the True Cross. With that title comes a lot of responsibility, a responsibility I expect you to honour and uphold in this class as well. You are welcome to joke, laugh, have fun – life is bleak enough and humour can be a great remedy to any kind of pain. But as you carry a sword, so should you always carry yourself with mercy and compassion. To both others and yourself. I will teach you, to the best of my abilities, to fight – to protect. To serve justice. To serve God. To be the extension of His power, _and_ His love, on Earth. To be human. And I trust you to take that task seriously."

A pregnant, heavy silence filled the room. Shiro couldn't look his teacher in the eye. Neither could any of his classmates. _You can always tell as long as you pay attention._ How much attention had Benedetto paid to him already?

His gaze slid sideways. Shiro wasn't the only one who had bent his neck under the weight the old man just had placed on their shoulders. They were all lost in thought, all contemplating the burden they had chosen to bear. Fulmine, too, seemed pensive. Eyes cast down, a slight squint, a concentrated frown resting on her brow...

A vague memory tickled his brain, the kind that seems like nothing more than the whisper of a dream. The expression seemed familiar. _She_ seemed familiar. But before he could dig deeper, another one of Benedetto's sharp claps resounded in the hall.

"Alright, alright, you're making those clouds darker than they need to be, boys. Let's not ruin a beautiful day~" As if to let his own sunny disposition chase the heavy responsibilities away, he sent out a beaming smile. "...Now drop to the floor and give me twenty."

* * *

Shiro had never experienced a more bizarre warm-up.

Push-ups, sit-ups and squats – now that he was used to. But then their teacher had them roll, crawl, walk on their hands and feet, drag themselves over the floor on their elbows, and something he could only describe as playing leapfrog on your own. All of it while keeping their practice swords with them in some way or another. It was draining and absolutely ridiculous. Flavio's grimace spelt murder, while Gianpiero kept a straight face throughout the whole ordeal, be it a red and dripping one. Larry revealed a masochistic side that he happily shared with them through encouraging shouts of "come on, wimp tits!" and "let's do this, fuckers!" The latter earned him a swift reprimand from Benedetto not to use such language before the Holy Mother.

It didn't help that their teacher's assistant had left after the rolling part. She had taken a seat atop a balance beam placed under the windows, filing her nails while casting them the occasional glance.

Benedetto himself had a merry time of it.

"You'll have to make do with human adversaries instead of actual demons during training, so the least I could do is offer a more realistic set of movements to prepare you lot for the real deal."

He had a point. Shiro had spent more mission time creeping around corners and ploughing through vegetation than anything resembling a regular workout. Even with his enhanced strength, he could feel the fatigue building up in his muscles from movements they weren't accustomed to.

One quick water break later they were joined once more by Fulmine as they dragged their huffing and puffing bodies back to the floor, where their teacher proved he hadn't been kidding about starting them on the absolute basics.

The first thing, apparently, was learning how to stand. Then, how to walk. Perhaps it shouldn't have come as a surprise from someone who had made them crawl and play – sorry, no, _practice_ with wooden swords –, but Shiro's had not expected his teacher to treat him even more like a toddler than his landlady did.

Nor had he expected that it would actually prove to be tricky.

They were asked to place their feet at the width of their shoulders, pointing the toes of their right foot in the direction of their teacher and the other one at a ninety degree angle. They then had to bend their knees, maintaining a straight torso, and keep their shoulders aligned with their hips while turning their heads in the direction of their front foot. Their weapons were to be held close to their bodies at pelvic height, with the tip following the line of their eyes, all while they kept most of their weight on one leg – they could shift it to the other if they got tired, but they had to keep low while doing so.

"This is very important. This is where you gain your balance and your strength, so that you can both parry strikes and deal them. No bouncing up and down like a bunch of whac-a-moles or I will treat you as such", their teacher threatened jokingly when they started walking, taking care to place the ball of their foot down first before moving the rest of their bodies.

Holding a sword by his side like this was kinda like holding a gun pointed at the ground while scouting a strange area. All in all Shiro had been taught to move in a similar manner back at the academy and thought he was doing fairly well. He wasn't, as usually was the case when he thought he was good at something that had to do with swords.

"You lead with your shoulder." Benedetto tapped him on said body part. "Don't do that."

"How do you mean?"

"Like I said, Shitters might need to unlearn a few things." He shook his head with a friendly twinkle in his eye. "You're holding a blade, my boy, not a gun. While it can be wise to hide your weapon and offer your opponent a seemingly easy target, there is no risk of this–", he tapped the wooden sword, "–suddenly going off in the wrong direction. Hiding it would be pretty tricky, too. You're already in close range when you fight, and then you will want this to be between your body and your enemy – good knight or good night." He positioned himself next to his student, pinching the tip of the weapon with the remaining fingers of his right hand while gently putting his left over Shiro's, and started pulling them both forwards, making him stretch out his arms with the tip of the weapon aimed at the throat of an invisible foe. "Pointy end goes into the other guy." He winked at his student. "Tip and toes move first, everything else follows. Link by link, like a chain being pulled. Or a locomotive departing with a whole convoy of cars behind it. I know it's a lot of goods to store, but try to keep on the right track, hm?" Another wink, and Benedetto walked off to see if the others were as much Dragoons as Shiro was.

They were.

Exercises were interrupted and Fulmine assumed position in front of them, facing towards the other students as her father talked them through the different _posta_ : guarded stances from which to divert or place an attack. Ideally, you fluently moved from one to another, striking or stabbing in between. Fulmine demonstrated and they were supposed to mirror her. Meanwhile, Benedetto walked around observing them, nudging an elbow here and aligning a knee there. When moving one's weapon from one side to the other you frequently entered a position where your arms crossed each other, which was a weak _posta_ : a position where your arms remained parallel was a strong one.

"Weak and strong do not mean quite the same in sword fighting as they do in everyday society", Benedetto explained. "A strong pose sounds good, yes? In reality it depends on the situation. Having to switch between the two is not an option in a fight: it's a necessity. Just like the strong and weak of the blade itself, you need both."

Shiro made a genuine effort to remember all the names, some of which he recognised from when Benedetto had talked about the impact of certain strikes on the armour, but the incessant information sifting seemed to have worn out parts of his brain. It didn't make it better that without all the protective plating, their demonstration mannequin displayed some really nice curves... even in lame black jogging pants and shapeless t-shirt.

It wasn't too different from the way Toshio-sensei had been teaching... but he had always stuck to a solid routine, the san ju ichi. So by the time Benedetto started calling out a random pose at short intervals, Shiro was screwed. Fulmine's reactions were immediate and fluid, while he more than once confused the "dente di cinghiale" with the "porta di ferro".

Benedetto was a clear improvement from Toshio-sensei. Still, as much as he hated it, Shiro had to admit that the method of his _other_ teacher in Japan had suited him much better. Training felt so... official over here. So guided. So structured. God, so much _talking_. He was an instinct kind of guy – a "thinking allergic" kind of guy, as Toshio once had put it. Just when his brain was about to turn into soup – to compliment his noodle arms – Larry managed to mess up a pose and swing his sword backwards with too much force, hitting his neighbour in the shins. Gianpiero yelped and dropped his weapon in favour of clasping his leg with both hands, which in turn made Flavio crack up and hit his sword on the floor. The collective concentration in the room went up in smoke, leading an amused Bébé to call for another short – and very welcome – pause.

They all went searching for their water bottles and a good spot to crash. Most took to the benches, which led Flavio to search for something more... befitting his position. He hoisted himself on top of some of the other training equipment, finally setting himself atop an old leather vault.

"That horse high enough for you, Cesarino?" Gianpiero grinned and took a sip.

"Afraid not. People should be able to kiss my feet when I ride past." Flavio stretched out his foot. "Easy on the tongue, Casanova."

Gianpiero approached and grasped the heel of his shoe as if it were a lady's hand, bending forward to kiss it – then he let go of his water bottle, latched his other hand onto Flavio's ankle, and pulled.

"Aaah! Stop it, you moron!"

"I should at least buy it dinner before I kiss it! It's only proper!"

In the choice between toppling sideways off the vault and latching on to it like a panicked frog, Flavio chose the latter and was being forced into a semi-split by Gianpiero's insistent tugging.

"It's not interested in you! It's already engaged!"

The water bottle rolled away, spilling its contents over the floor. Shiro watched the tug-o-war intensify until it almost toppled the vault itself. Their teacher merely sighed, massaging his forehead as Gianpiero professed his undying love to Flavio's foot.

"What you need is a foot in the rear, if you'd ask me." Benedetto looked at his struggling students with his fists planted in his sides and a quirked eyebrow. "If you still have the energy for these kind of theatrics I obviously should have worked you harder. Now get your butt down here so we can proceed with training."

* * *

"We don't have that much time left, and I wanted to impose at least one strike on you, so you don't feel as if you haven't done any actual fighting. Cara mia, if you would?" Benedetto made an inviting motion to a spot on the floor, roughly three metres to his right.

Fulmine strode forwards, now with her metal feder in hand and assumed position next to her father. The crossguard of her sword was at her right shoulder, with the tip pointing upwards like a lance. _Posta corona_ , Shiro remembered. Crown pose.

Shiro groaned inwardly. It seemed so easy when she did it. Weight on her right leg, with the knee bent towards the students; her left foot pointed a straight line to Benedetto's right shoulder. Benedetto himself stood right in front of her, not guarded or armed in any way: just a regular fellow about to be... about to be...

"Excellente. You lot, pay attention. And don't worry." He winked. Specifically at Larry, who looked like this situation didn't sit right with him. "Mi tesoro knows what she's doing, and so do I. After all, I taught her how to do it." He confidently turned around to face his daughter.

" _Squalembrato_ , papà? Fast or slow?"

"Fast first, slow later. Strike whenever you're ready."

Evidently, "ready" was split seconds after the word had left Benedetto's lips. One moment she was standing fixed in her appointed spot, the next the tip of her feder hovered only a few centimetres from her father's left ear, hanging perfectly still, with the sharp of the blade angled directly at his arteries. A minor shockwave went through the line of guys. Somewhere inside, further in than he cared to venture, Shiro felt like something was about to snap. Violently. He tried to move, _escape_ , but it was like the connection between brain and body had been cut. Like he wasn't in his body at all. Specks of rose glass sunlight swirled on the floor, in the air, in–

Lights going out in their eyes.

No _._

Lights going out around him.  
_  
No._ No colourful specks of sun-lit stained glass. The only light left was Samael's heart gone haywire, the warping rays of black and white throwing wild shadows at the steel – wood? steel? – blade in his hands. Whirling, everything was whirling. The blood on the floor, the blood in his head, the light, too much, too much. It was around him, inside him, drowning him. The pulse hammered in his ears, in his ribcage; couldn't think, couldn't breathe, he would die, his heart would– His _heart!_

Hours, days, months of training kicked in, like an emergency backup generator: reflexes etched in deep enough to reach into the flashbacks. Detach. You're not vulnerable if you don't feel anything. Embrace the emptiness, still and quiet as a dead lake: it cares nothing for what nightmares you drown in there.

Warily, he opened his eyes. The world had returned, and the thundering heartbeat had faded into the distance. There were no warping shadows. There was no blood. The others were still fully focused on the demonstration: for all they knew, nothing had happened.

Benedetto was having a good time, looking at his students and smugging them over the edge of Fulmine's sword: "Told you."

His daughter leisurely stepped back, retracting her weapon in the process and placing it back at her shoulder in a relaxed grip.

"Now, again. Slowly."

As asked, she performed the strike again – this time in perfect slow-motion. Shiro's consciousness swayed, seemed to detach and drift away from him in a bubble of glass. He grasped for the details, for something to hold on to – not slip away, not slip back _there_. He isolated her motions, deconstructed them to a series of movements, nothing more. Nothing that led up to someone losing their life.

The tip of the sword moved forward, like a clock hand; her wrists and elbows followed the line of the blade, as if pulled along by it. Her weight transferred from right leg to her left, and the back leg stretched automatically with the shift before turning the knee and lifting the foot off the ground. As her arms started to extend forwards, right shoulder pulling the hip forwards with it, she dragged her bent right leg past the left one before extending it again. Her left knee and foot turned outwards while she placed only the toes of her right foot on the floor in front of Benedetto. Her right arm now almost completely extended, her wrists turning to angle the weapon, this time gently laying the blunt edge in the corner of her father's neck and shoulder. At the moment the heel of her right foot touched the floor, she began shifting her weight to it, while slowly dragging her hands to her left hip, trailing the blade down diagonally across the old man's chest until the tip escaped his shirt at his right side and all became... still.

Nobody spoke. Even as newbies they knew they had just witnessed something exquisite.

"Perfect!" Benedetto exclaimed, arms thrown wide. "I hope you all paid close attention. Now, pair up one-on-one and we'll teach you how to both perform and counter this particular strike." No. Fuck no. "Which just so happens to be the exact same thing."

Wait, what?

His eyes were still apathetically on Fulmine as she fetched another metal sword from the rack. She might not be much like Midori in terms of personality, but in fighting power... Swords had never been his speciality, but the amount of body control she had displayed just now spoke volumes.

"Now now, aren't you supposed to be a seminarian, Amadeo?"

Shiro jumped. Someone as big as Benedetto shouldn't be able to sneak up on you like that.

"Eh? Ahh– I wasn't– staring, I–"

Benedetto just laughed at his stutterings and patted him on the back.

"I'm joking, I'm joking! I'm more wary of your fleet-footed classmate in that case..." Ah. So he had noticed Gianpiero's little flirt. "You do seem distracted, though. Is everything alright?"

Curious old man. Nice old man.

"Everything's fine. It's just a lot of new stuff all at once." He tapped the side of his head. "Slow filing in the administration." Jokes worked well on this guy. Even forced ones.

His teacher stared at him for a second, but then burst out laughing, clasping his quivering belly.

Oh come on, it hadn't been that funny...

"Hee hee hee..." Benedetto wiped a tear out of his eye. "You probably shouldn't do that in public." At the sight of his nonplussed expression, his teacher elaborated: "You just called me crazy."

"I what?"

"This." Benedetto tapped his temple. "Is calling someone crazy."

"Sorry!" He scratched the back of his head with an apologetic look, then froze abruptly. "Wait, does this mean something, too?"

"Scratching your head? That you are puzzled by something."

"Well I _am_ puzzled by Italian right now. In Japan this means I'm embarrassed." Shiro looked at his hands like they were tools of unknown application that may or may not blow up in his face. "Maybe I'll just... stay still."

"You worry too much!" Benedetto shook his head. "Should have guessed it from the hair. Listen to me, Amadeo: life is made of errors and corrections. You insult someone by making the wrong gesture – so? Just ask what upset them and fix it." He slapped an arm around Shiro's shoulders and turned him around to look at the others. "You don't think they make mistakes? You don't think they learn as they go?" ...yes. Yes, they did. They were all scowls and searching, all trying to grasp the unfamiliar movements they had been shown. "We aren't gods, my boy – if anything we're clowns, every last one of us. All we can do is pay attention and show good intention as we make our mistakes." His face lit up, and up went the corners of his mouth, too, as he shared his brilliant revelation: "Pay attention and show good intention for an alteration of the situation!" That beaming smile. The pride he had in his find.

Shiro slapped a hand over his glasses and groaned, but also couldn't help the chuckle that bubbled in his throat.

" _You_ REALLY are a clown."

"Guilty as charged! But, between you and me", he lowered his voice and moved his head closer to Shiro's, "I'm better at teaching than clowning, so I try to keep this job. You can help with that, if you like. Team up with one of those troublemakers." He nodded towards Flavio and Gianpiero. "I'd prefer to split them up, to avoid a repeat of this morning. And if Sacchetti pays more attention to my girl than to his opponent you poke him in the ribs."

"Will do", Shiro chuckled. He watched the back of Benedetto... of Bébé as he returned to his teaching spot with easy gait. Really nice old man. " _How the fuck will I poke Gianpiero in the ribs? I can't even_ watch _a fighting demonstration without slipping up!_ " Emergency solutions crowded his mind: toilet break, suddenly feeling sick...

" _Squalembrato_ is the name given to a diagonal strike from above. It is the strongest and most common strike, even without a sword." Bébé let his daughter hold their practice weapons while he illustrated his words. Using the same footwork and weight shifting displayed by her earlier, he clenched his remaining right-hand fingers into a fist and performed a slowed-down version of whacking an invisible opponent in the jaw. "You can actually see it used by animals, even – ones that use their front legs to fight, like bears. You also see this kind of punch a lot in enraged or possessed individuals, leading the German school of sword fighting to call it a _Zornhau_ , a fury strike. Though that name only applies when you perform it moving the sword from your dominant side to your non-dominant side. Today you will all start in the right-held crown pose, and end in a left-held _posta breve_. This means you will have to take a step either forwards or backwards in between, like just shown. Given that you are most likely to encounter this strike in an offensive situation, I say it's best to start learning it stepping forwards. And now comes the most interesting part! Most attacks dictate that you should move to where the incoming weapon _isn't_ : this is the only known one where you counter with the exact same strike." Bébé grinned. "Essentially you fight fire with fire, or fury with fury in this case."

He was given a practice weapon from Fulmine, assumed his position, sword ready, and motioned her to start. Calmly, though not as agonizingly slow as before, she performed the strike. Right after she began moving, Bébé mirrored her, and steel struck steel in the air between them.

"Now, I may have stopped her, but she also stopped me. We are at an impasse. There are several solutions to this problem, all of which require timing and a good feel for what the other person is doing. The easiest, and therefore the most tempting one, is using your body weight and twisting your weapon to force through the other person's line of attack." Arms stretched and wrists twisting, he bent further through his front knee, moving Fulmine's blade out of the way and lightly tapping the side of her neck with his.

"However, if your opponent is very strong, this can be hard to do... At least in the small amount of time you have, between him feeling the shock and realising he has to try something else." He moved backwards, so they were in a standoff once again, blades crossed. "So, as soon as you feel a lot of resistance through your weapon..." He nodded towards his daughter, keeping his sword as steady as he could while she gently pushed against it by leaning forwards. "...The best thing to do is to simply find another angle."

Fulmine could no doubt force her way through, with her teacher's lack of grip, but instead she slung her rear leg behind her while lifting the back of her sword, scooping up Benedetto's weapon in the process. With her father's sword stuck between her blade and her crossguard, she bent forwards a bit, sliding her weapon alongside his, with the tip pointed at the bridge of his nose. Benedetto let himself go amusingly cross-eyed as he looked at it.

"I'd like you all to try this out... Slowly. Attack in slow motion and at equal pace, in turns. Take your time in feeling how much the other person is resisting. If he hardly does, gently push through. If he is putting up a fight, change your angle. And be very careful! You'll find wooden swords are still pretty hard when they hit your skull, or ear. Pay close attention to your partner to see what he can and cannot handle. Anyone going too fast volunteers to be punching bag when we practice this strike with fists."

Shit. Excuse himself for a toilet break? Maybe. It wouldn't look too weird, after the water breaks. But Gianpiero had already turned to Flavio as his preferred training partner. Double shit. If Shiro took off right now Bébé might remind him of his promise. He couldn't dawdle much longer either. Any second now people would start wondering why he was just standing there.

Shiro gulped to force the knot out of his throat. Just let Gianpiero do the defence first. He might be able to do this if he knew he would never hit the other in the first place. Maybe he could fake pulling a muscle when performing the strike? Even twisting a knee didn't seem too heavy a price right now. As long as it wasn't permanent.

He reached out to tap Gianpiero on the shoul–

The ornate double doors flew open. Everyone froze on the spot. A woman strode in, bathed in the rainbow spotlight cast by the rose window across the training hall. The rays glistened in the gigantic sword at her hip, played over the waterfall of blonde hair that swayed from a high ponytail with each step. Her cape billowed out as she spread her arms to announce–

"Comrades!" The fuck – it was a guy? "My apologies for keeping you in suspense. As fate would have it, my plane yesterday was cancelled – but, I have arrived safely, and it is a true pleasure to see you all gathered here. From the bottom of my noble heart, I greet you!"

Shiro had no idea what the hell was happening. Nobody had. Well, the blonde weirdo was bowing, currently, but…

"Many years of labour lie ahead of us, difficult ones as well as triumphant ones, and I will treasure each moment of our time together." Okay, now he was reciting marriage vows… "I wish you to know that I, Andrew Austin Angel, am honoured to work with you, and I hope I will prove worthy of feelings of honour and gratitude in turn."

A stunned silence enveloped the training hall. And in that one moment of pause, an oddly shrill female voice cut through the room:

"Kyaaa! Andrew is so chivalrous and handsome!"

It came from Andrew.

The knot in Shiro's throat was dispelled by a sudden, violent fit of coughing. The door must have whisked up some dust when it was flung open so brusquely: Fulmine and Larry doubled over in coughs at the exact same moment.

" _Did this guy seriously just use ventriloquism to call himself handsome?!_ " He hadn't even bothered with a sock puppet, just…! " _Man, what a jackass!_ " In fact, Andrew was so distractive that Shiro failed to notice the two biggest clowns of the class weren't laughing.

"Oh, you're one of the British transfers!" Bébé, who had somehow not succumbed to the coughing epidemic, shook Andrew's hand with an admirably straight face. "Welcome to the eternal city! Benedetto Battista, swords instructor. I don't think I've seen you registered for Knight training? No problem, we'll fix that for you after class. Grab a feder sword and join in. My assistant and I were just demonstrating how to counter a _squalembrato_."

"Thank you graciously, my good man, but I am already a licensed Knight! I only came to introduce myself – but now that I'm here I might as well lend a hand, no? Milady...?" Andrew had turned to Fulmine and offered his hand: as he did, Shiro got a full view of the most ridiculously oversized sword he had ever laid eyes on.

" _If that's not compensation for something I'm gonna– Oh you're kidding me, he's even taller than her?_ " Was there something in blonde hair that made you grow into a giant?

"Fulmine Battista." Fulmine had intended to shake hands with Andrew, but the moment she put her hand in his he bowed and gently kissed the back of it.

"My pleasure. If you would be so kind...?" His hand remained outstretched after their introduction, to the puzzlement of Fulmine. Andrew saw the look on her face and laughed – a peculiar sound that made you think of faked laughters in movies. "The sword, milady. This is no tool for a woman."

Most people have an intuitive sense for when they have said The Wrong Thing – even Shiro, despite his foot-in-mouth syndrome, did notice when he had said something he shouldn't have. But, there are also the people who don't.

"Spoken like a true gentleman." Bébé might actually have a better poker face than Gianpiero. Not only had Andrew insulted his daughter's skill as a fencer but also Bébé's skill as a fencing teacher: and there he was, mediating like it was nothing. "There really is no need, however. Fulmine has been my assistant for many years and is quite good at what she does. Besides", he said with a knowing smile, "there's no better way to keep young men's attention than to give them a lovely lady to look at. So you don't have to–"

"No, papà: he's right. The most competent one should teach." Fulmine handed Andrew her feder sword, resting horizontally across her outstretched hands. She then turned to her father, hand outstretched. A perfect mirror to what had transpired between her and Andrew just moments ago. "There's only one way to find out who that is, right?" Her smile would have fooled Shiro if not for her earlier reaction. There was nothing light or innocent about her request.

Bébé's eyes shot to the sword in his own hand, then back to his daughter. As if mirroring the turmoil in his mind, the sun vanished in a cloud and the once bright training hall became a monochrome photography: black uniforms, grey linoleum floor, quivering wills.

"No, mi tesoro, there's no need for that. I would never want any other assistant than you."

"And I would never raise a weapon against a woman. Such despicable acts are unbecoming a Knight." Andrew shook his head and offered Fulmine her blade back. His words created a ripple of silent nods among the students. Harm a girl? Unthinkable!

"...So if it's a woman who got possessed, you wouldn't be able to do your job?"

Ouch. She had cocked her head ever so slightly in that bird-like manner. Her tone was one of civilised curiosity, but her gaze spelled _incompetent_ in every language on Earth.

Shiro nipped on the tip of his tongue while his eyes darted back and forth between Andrew and Bébé...

"I would send an Aria to exorcise her, of course." The confused scowl on the Brit's face said he didn't make the connection Fulmine had intended. "As your father and I have already agreed, there will be no–"

"...You have a point." Bébé raised his eyes, but not to Andrew. The room brightened softly, warming Fulmine's tanned skin and golden hair. "A true knight should be prepared to be confronted with anything – even his own values." Just as he laid his hand on Fulmine's shoulder, the sun broke through in full. Coloured light washed over them, leapt off the ring on his finger, the hair clips on her head, the blade in his hand, every particle of dust in the air dyed red and blue and gold. "...But do your old man – and that fellow over there – a favour and wear at least some gloves and a mask", he said with warm eyes.

"Of course, papà." Fulmine grasped the hand squeezing her shoulder and squeezed it back. With that, she walked off to get the gear, while her father held out his hand to take the feder from a flabbergasted Andrew.

"But sir– Can you really endorse–?"

"Normally I wouldn't." Benedetto shot him a warm smile. "But she _is_ right. How can you be expected to handle a situation you've never been in contact with? The more practice, the better. And this is a fairly safe environment for such trials, don't you think?" He patted the young man on the shoulder, like he had done with Shiro previously. "Lighten up, my boy. I am right here in case anything goes wrong, but I have every confidence that you won't hurt my daughter – or vice versa. After all, a skilled warrior also knows to fight gently."

Andrew looked like he might have wanted to argue with that, up until Benedetto mentioned that a skilled warrior knew how to moderate his strength in combat. That seemed to hit the right note, judging by how he straightened up.

"Of course", he agreed. "But as a knight I refuse to strike a woman with a sword – even if it is a blunt one, and even if it is for practice."

"We'll go by Olympic fencing rules, then. A mere touch will do." Fulmine held out the mask to him like a fruit basket, gloves inside. Andrew declined it.

"Angels do not use headgear."

"Suit yourself."

Bébé was handed the gear instead while Fulmine strapped on mask and gloves. Andrew prepared in his own fashion: he unbuckled the belt with the huge sword, leaning it daintily against the benches before returning to his opponent. ...He also made sure to turn so his cape fluttered dramatically behind him.

" _Let me guess: he doesn't use head protection 'cause that would ruin his hai–_ "

"You show her, Andrew! True beauty never loses!"

Okay, the voice did _not_ come from Andrew; it came from a few metres away, where the sword was. But it couldn't... Or could it...? Shiro recalled Bébé mentioning enchanted swords somewhere in the avalanche of words – and hoped to high heaven he would _not_ get one that gave him creepy compliments.

Bébé may have looked calm earlier, but when he handed them each a feder he seemed nervous. He stepped back and gave the duellists space between him and the line of students.

"Ha-hrm, hum", he cleared his throat. "Well, then. One round only, first blood wins. Not literally, of course – I'd prefer no blood at all." He took a moment to gather himself and take a deep breath. "Touch only, no full force. No attacks by either party after initial victory or surrender, no attacking a fallen enemy. If anyone faints, is disarmed, if protection or other materials are faulty, or if anyone calls for a time out for whatever reason, the match will be stopped immediately. Understood?"

Two nods, one by a mask and one by a head of golden hair. Bébé eyed them both, gaze bouncing back and forth as if following a tennis match. Andrew looked very uncomfortable about this.

"Alright. Greet, and begin."

The duellists raised their swords in front of them and swept them down in a quick, swishing motion. Fulmine lifted her weapon back up again, placing it in corona at her right shoulder. Her opponent followed suit hesitantly. The two began pacing around each other, slow and measured, but the distance between them remained. Neither of them seemed eager to deliver the first strike.

The tension burned Shiro's nerves like high voltage discharge. Like wire stretched too taut. It surged through his muscles, through his brain – _run_. Or fight. Or scream or strike or leap or _something_ before the tension made him snap in half.

Control the breathing, control the breathing, _detach_ , before the visions began _..._

The pressure lasted until the duellists had almost completed a full circle, and then it _happened._ Fulmine struck a diagonal blow, just like the one she and her father had demonstrated; Andrew mirrored it instantly. Excellent reflexes. Yet, split seconds before his sword hit hers, she flipped the tip of her sword backwards, shielding her spine with it as she dove beneath Andrew's. Crossed it. Passed it. Came up right next to him while swinging her sword back up in a smooth, circular motion. A shock in the man's arms: and the moment the cold edge of the girl's feder lightly touched his neck, the tip of his own clattered to the ground.

Like pebbles thrown in a pond, the sound rippled over the linoleum, through their shoes and over their skin. Shiro could feel the hairs on his neck standing on end, and he half expected to see a surge through Andrew's long mane.

The knight stared at his hands in disbelief. The left one still clutched the back of the grip, but the right hovered at the end of his outstretched arm, holding nothing but air.

Fulmine reached around her head with one hand and tore the mask's velcro straps open, casually keeping the sword resting on Andrew's shoulder with her other hand. His head turned, gaze meeting the satisfied glow in her eyes as the mask came off.

The tension slacked, in a choir of held breaths released, and the last bit of suspense was blown out of the hall by Bébé's thundering clapping.

"Brava, brava, bravissima!" Fulmine was spun around and enveloped in a rib-crushing bear hug, her father rocking from side to side and almost lifting her off the floor. Her own feder clattered down on the carpeting in a flurry of embarrassed 'papà, stop it!'

"Noooooo!" The shrill voice of the sword howled, and it dawned on Shiro that it sounded shrill because it was a male voice trying to sound female. "Andrew cannot lose! Cheater! Charlatan! I'll cut you to shreds, you dastardly wench!"  
_  
That_ woke Andrew up. He rushed back to his sword and chastised it for such language and lack of sportsmanship, only to have it whine back at him like a petulant child. The scene as a whole was just so comical. Gianpiero doubled over with laughter, slapping himself on the knee, and Larry performed a sharp whistle with his fingers; Flavio was clapping, measuredly, like a Caesar applauding a satisfactory but unimpressive gladiator fight. Shiro clapped, too, loudly: for Fulmine's performance, and for Andrew and his gay fangirl sword.

"Is that really all? That fast?" Larry wondered.

"Yes!" Bébé still beamed when he finally complied with his daughter's blushing complaints and put her down. "Don't tell me, don't tell me – you have watched the motion pictures, hm? Those Hollywood productions where duellists stare each other down over crossed blades for a minute? Baloney. Real duels rarely last more than seconds after engaging."

The sound of a man clearing his throat made them turn. Andrew had approached Fulmine and Bébé. He was once again wearing his giant sword, with his left hand in a tight grip around its hilt: the right hand he held forward. He didn't look stiff so much as he looked like he was choking on all that pride he had to swallow.

Fulmine grasped his hand and shook it with a sunny smile.

"Good work, everyone!" Bébé threw his arms out as if intent on hugging them all at once. "It's been an exciting day, and I'll be looking forward to seeing you again for next class. Ah, ah – what's the hurry? I haven't given you homework yet." Oh no. He was smiling the way he did when he was really pleased with his ideas. "Once a week, I want you to go out and eat together. Bring your other teammates too, Doctors and Tamers and what have you: sit down together and relax. You don't have time to get to know each other very well at work, with demons nipping at your heels, but if it's one thing that's essential for a team it is to know each other well. That's all! Off you go! Except you two." Bébé was pointing at Flavio and Gianpiero. "I recall you volunteering to swipe the floor–" Gianpiero's poker face absorbed the impact of the words flawlessly, "–and you will stash away the equipment under Fulmine's supervision."

For once there was no sassy smile on Flavio's lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Feeled** \- yep that is an error. Shiro will make those sometimes when he speaks Italian - I have a scene/development that hinges on that. (I'm still grateful if you find errors that are not meant to be there. =0v0=)
> 
>  **San ju ichi** \- "the 31 count practice" is a term belonging in martial arts. It's a form practiced for the Japanese short staff, which in Fox's opinion translates well to stances and movements with a sword.
> 
>  **Lynn Anderson** is a country singer who recorded Rose Garden in the 70's and it was a huge hit - I'm sure you've heard it. "I beg your pardon, I never promised you a rose garden~"
> 
>  **Cesarino** \- "little Caesar". (These guys have a ton of nicknames for each other.)
> 
>  **Andrew Austin Angel** started out as a joke, I can't remember with whom - might have been Aria DC Al Fine. I doubt I have anything canon on him except that he's British. xD Arthur is supposed to be of British-French descent and I'm assuming he takes his surname from his father. His mother will show up, too.


	88. Bloody Fairy Tales

You never tire of humans. That the same species that landed on the moon can fail to correctly staple a mission report is nothing short of fascinating; the diversity of mankind is nothing short of fascinating. Hardy like mahogany, frail like autumn leaves, and proud beyond words. Worms as they are they still think bigger, dream bolder, fancying themselves caterpillars that will one day transcend and gain wings.

Some delude themselves that they create stories. It is an easy mistake to make, in their defence. They move the pen, yes: they grind the ink and shape the words, but they do not create the story. They are merely gardeners, given a seed to plant and mulch and water – and prune.

A story is a living thing, growing and branching of its own accord. An author is only there to edit, to make the choices that steer the story towards a final form: which branches are explored, which ones are cut; what kind of flower will bloom, in the end, on those outmost twigs remaining…

Samael reaches for the bowl on his office desk, and a golden caramel slides pensively over his tongue – the wrapper he tosses aside, not bothering to look where the waste basket currently is. What flowers would bloom, indeed – and how many times would he have to prune that particular branch before new shoots stopped sprouting?

"You!" What an uncute way for a girl to speak – and to slam open his office doors. "Ya stinkin' mudcreepin' garbage ape!"

Honda Kasumi was a charming woman when she wasn't tearing through his office in a hurricane of profanity. Then again, it is amusing to see someone so tiny be so angry.

"Miss Honda! To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"That would be yer own goddamn scheming, wouldn't it?!"

She slammed the objects in her hand onto his desk with jarring force – goodness, even on oak that might leave a mark. A rumpled letter, with Shiro's unmistakeable handwriting, and the key Samael had given her when it had been clear that Shiro wasn't going to cut those ties properly on his own.

Then there was Miss Honda herself, looming over the desk in a not too shabby attempt to set him on fire with her eyes. An unpleasant tingle in his teeth told him she was wearing, oh, more than one very potent anti-demon charm for the occasion. She might be carrying other weapons as well, holy water and blessed silver – objects easy to conceal and to use. Wary of an assault, perhaps? Or did she fancy herself exorcist enough to be the assailant? Well, either way~

"My, you seem tense. Caramel?"

The bowl flew several metres before it hit the floor, sending a clattering spray of Werther's Echte candies over his pot plant and floor lamp.

"Let him go." The snarl was etched in every feature of her petite form.

"Let who go?" He donned a face of mild confusion not so much to fool as to conduct a little experiment: would Miss Honda, a human, be as physical about her demands as Miss Sakura, a half-demon, had been?

"Don't play dumb with me! Ya sent him ta Rome ta do yer shady dirty work and fer all I know ta _die_ doing yer shady dirty work! Now, ye can release 'im from that contract", on the desk, the knuckles on her balled fists had gone white, "or I can tell the Grigori their presumed pet demon has been stealin' souls through unsanctioned contracts."

Haah, this is what happens when humans let emotion obscure their thinking. They rush in with some half-baked plan, stumble in one of its holes, and fall flat on their noses.

"With all due respect for your guts, Miss Honda, I don't feel threatened in the slightest. A contract has two contrahents. To prove that a contract exists you would have to expose both: Shiro will then become unable to fulfil his part of the agreement, and by default his soul will be mine."

"Ye're not even denying it." It's not a question, not with that stiff look on her face.

"What would be the point? He left you a letter of explanation, did he not? And an appeal not to intervene." He smiles his most amicable smile. "Shiro went to great lengths to see you unharmed, Miss Honda. It would be ungrateful to let his efforts go to waste."

It's a beautiful display, that moment of disbelief before the meaning of his words sink in – _stab_ , right to the core where dread nests in every human heart.

"…Ye're a monster." Her fear washes over him, a surge of nausea and frostbite that makes his senses shudder in delight. The girl is taut with fear – taut with _rage_ , and a tantalizing edge flickers amidst her vulnerability.

A prey to hunt; a cornered animal prepared to fight.

She clenches her teeth around a shiver, weighs her next words carefully before she gathers air to speak.

"How much? Ta buy him free of 'is contract: how much would that cost?"

Ahhh, affection: demons' greatest partner in business! How many foolish choices aren't made for a loved one marked for misfortune? How many stories aren't ended by the bane that is the human bond?

"So adorable!" Like a fairy tale, like a proper manga! He smiles, he _squeals_ ; he presses his curled fists to his cheeks and wiggles in his chair, oh this is too wonderful! The princess come to save the prince, what a lovely inversion of tropes! "You humans are too cute!"

She doesn't know what to think. She doesn't understand his reaction, or the mind behind it.

"But should you really be doing that, Miss Honda?" Samael's bubbly mood is gone as abruptly as it came. His eyes aren't slits of joy but hooded wells of poison, scanning her with an intelligence that peels her skin like orange rind. "'Sign a contract for each friend that gets hurt? Fight demons by day and bargain with them at night, until you've got nothing left to sell?'" It rings familiar to her ears, yes. Shock paints jagged lines across her features as she recalls but cannot fathom how he knows words he shouldn't know. Words that were between her and her lost lion boy. "Could you really expect him to heed your advice when even you don't practise what you preach~?"  
 _  
This_. This surge of rapture, this sweet, sweet high of euphoric delight as waves of human shock and horror crash through him…!

"Surely a storyteller like yourself knows that not every fairy tale ends in happily ever after?" he purrs, resting his elbows on the desk and lacing his fingers together. "Not every battle is won, not every charming prince is saved – and wouldn't it be a terribly tragic ending, if the efforts of the princess wound up causing his death instead?" He smiles, lips lined with sadism and honey. "If you truly care about him–"

"Shut up!" A violent sweep, and the rest of the items on his desk clatter to the floor. "The hell's wrong with you?! This ain't no goddamn fairy tale, this is his LIFE ye're toying with! And ye're going ta STOP!"

To Samael it all happens in slow motion. His anime figurines – including the Majokko Megu-chan with broomstick that he bought just days ago – bounce over the floor and roll away among the Werther caramels.

He will deal with that. Later. And they had better not be damaged.

Always the human life: spoken as if sun and moon revolved around it. Proud creatures indeed. They don't seem to realise how insignificant a human life is, in the grand scheme of things: how very few that actually use the potential they have been given. An empty cup, a blank page – woven into countless idioms rests the notion that life is a vessel waiting to be filled with meaning.

"Human lives are stories", he insists; a velvet hum that reverberates through bone, "written not on paper but in dreams, desire, and regret. And in between the lines there are the ghostwriters, like me." It's not a ghostwriter she sees when she looks at him. Whatever she sees is making her chest heave and clench around each breath. "I have no interest in writing droll stories."

"Are ya insane?! Do ya hear yeself?! Ye can't ruin people's lives just 'cause it's more interesting ta you that way!"

Ruin? Affront skims his features before the mask smoothes in place again. Ruin such an unusual game piece? The mere idea…!

"I am giving him opportunities he would never have had, to become more than he had ever dreamt: that's hardly to ruin someone's life."

"Yeah?! And did ya ever ask 'im if he _wanted_ yer meddlin'?!"

"I laid out an invitation; he answered it." Tsk, all this shouting was taking a toll on his ears… "I fear this argument has come to a standstill, Miss Honda. I'm not releasing Shiro, and you have no means to make me." The items swept off his desk return to their positions with a snap of his fingers. Everything is just as it was before she arrived, as if time hadn't passed at all. Her visit has changed absolutely nothing. "Was there anything else…?"

There are a thousand emotions and replies swirling in her heart, but none that will change anything. She knows that, too.

"He trusted ya. He liked ya." She hurls the words at him like rocks, as hard and sharp as her eyes. "Ya never understood that, did ya?"

…And people call him melodramatic. He smiles, watching Miss Honda turn on her heel – a woman like that will give rise to her own interesting stories, no doubt. Given different circumstances he might–

A heavy thump: the office windows shudder, the wards that envelope True Cross Academy crackle with insult.

Samael turns in his chair to see what demon is bothering his office. A shahrok flounders to regain its balance in the air after the barrier's jolt. It could have broken it, if it had wanted to. But that wasn't the plan, was it?

" _Clever girl._ " His left hand snakes up, catching Miss Honda's wrist mid-strike. The dagger in her hand looks tampered with, and he is not about to find out what it does to demons – her ward tattoos are nuisance enough. The tingling buzz shoots through his teeth and to his bones, a sensation like a billion nibbling insect mandibles trying to gnaw his essence from the host tissues. A faint burning sensation wafts over his palm. Tch, they aren't even making skin contact and there's still smoke rising through the fabric of his glove!

Miss Honda whimpers, squirms: dagger dropped and forgotten, the only thought in her mind is to break free of his grip. Her wards are coming undone. They are meant for lesser demons, not Kings of Gehenna. The ink is forced out of her skin, boiling, a grotesque display painting creeks of blood and black pigment down her arm.

No more hospitable headmaster. No more gentlemanly mien. This conversation is _over_.

Corner shadows come to life and hiss, eating the room as it begins to warp around them, twist and writhe like the veins that bulge on Samael's face. In the sticky darkness his eyes are glowing coals, will-o'-wisp beacons that promise hell for anybody foolish enough to wage pursuit. He pulls her closer and she nearly collapses over the desk, face drawn tight with pain.

"Do you know what happens when a character has played out its role, Miss Honda? It gets written out of the story – one way or another."

Nothing moves that silence. No sound dares intrude, not a single breath or heartbeat. Inkblood drips slowly on the distorting desk, counting every second that passes between their eyes. Then he lets her go. She grasps her wrist, gaze flicking about a room that's back to normal, questioning it: was it an illusion? Was it real? The face that showed beneath his human mask, was that real?

Samael offers no answers. His eyes no longer glow, the air no longer warps around him, his smile is no longer lined with venom.

"Caramel?"

That does it.

"Fuck you", she hisses, and that is the last thing she says before she storms out the door, right arm cradled against her body.

* * *

The smell of anger fades with the sound of her footsteps, and soon the air is still and undiluted once more. The office resumes its daily pace and daily sounds, ticking clocks and humming air condition – until a fit of snickers fills the room. Samael can't contain himself anymore: laughter racks his wiry frame, pealing rivulets of hearty, jarring tittering. What an exit! The conversation had its ups and downs but the exit offers little more to wish for. A good finale for a good character.

"Oh don't act like you're appalled." A glance, a hooded look: a smile that knows all and sees all. "This is what you're here for, you darling hypocrites. You want to see him go through fire and water and whatever else I fancy throwing in his path: not enact some dime a dozen tale of a boy who found a girl and lived happily ever after." This calls for another caramel – couldn't enjoy the last one properly for all that arguing. "That's why pruning is essentia– Eww!"

That icky molten ward substance got on his glove! Ew ew ew – he tugs it loose gingerly, fingertip by fingertip, and tosses it to the panda. On second thought he disposes of the other glove as well. And the mission report on his desk. That nasty-looking knife demands examination before he decides what to do with it, but _first_ –

…Thank goodness. Nothing has dripped on his anime figurines. Oh no. Is… Is he imagining it or is the paint on Megu-chan's hair _chipped_? Oh if that woman damaged it she's got another thing coming, _if there is so much as a dent on_ – Haah, no. All is well. Megu-chan is safe. All of them are safe.

Samael sinks back in his chair with a relieved sigh. Really, so much fuss over something so fickle. Does Miss Honda truly think her feelings for him will last, or his feelings for her? Like human life itself, emotion is a passing thing. Fleeting and intoxicating, frail and powerful, it makes them do the silliest things – like attempting blackmail in his own mansion.

His hands are pale, paler even than the sleeves of his white tailcoat. The skin is soft as on a youth but harbours the translucence of old age: veins, sinews, bones, all on obscene display without the gloves. His claws seem almost black by contrast but shimmer an iridiscent purple as he angles his hand back and forth for examination; the burn from the wards has healed without a trace. The only mark on the transparent skin is a thin, pearly scar on the wrist a few centimetres from his hand.

"…Do you know why demons strive to counter attachments such as love?"

Ask a demon and most of them won't know. They act on gut feeling and what they have been told, caring only to know the rule, not the reason.

Samael is not that kind of demon. His hands fold, his eyes fall closed, and the taste of the caramel gets free rein to envelope his senses.

"When humans bond together there is nothing they can't accomplish. Friendship, love, brotherhood: fickle as they are, frail as they may seem, human emotions can overcome anything."

It's mesmerising. And bothersome.

"They share their emotions instead of curbing them; they seek help from each other instead of us. As the bonds between humans grow, our power over them wanes." Green eyes open once again, but the gaze is distant – lingering a moment more wherever his thoughts had travelled. "Friendship can't be sold. Love can't be forged, nor brotherhood bought or stolen." A gleam flickers in his eyes, of something old and keen and vicious. "Thus they must be destroyed."

A pair of gloves materialise, freshly pressed, with a snap of Samael's fingers. He lays them on the desk, side by side. This is a ritual, part of the façade he dons to hide his true nature and not something to be hurried. The feel of silk against his skin is a discreet reminder: be careful, hold back, or else the fragile things of Assiah will break and all his efforts go to waste.

"Why I tell you this? Isn't that obvious?" It would be nonchalant, the way he slides the first glove on, if not for how meticulously he ascertains that all the seams run straight, that the fabric lies flush against the valleys between his fingers. "I know what you hope for. I know the wishes of the human heart and how to pluck its strings." The other glove embraces like a second skin, smooth lavender and lethal secrets. "I'm telling you so that you will understand how foolish those hopes are." The smile is ancient, knowing. One could almost take it for one of pity. "There is no attachment between a demon and a human; delude yourself there is and that fairy tale of yours will end in blood."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (If I were a demon, this would be me. Totally.)
> 
>  **Werther's Echte** are known since 1990 as Werther's Original. "Echte" means "authentic, real".
> 
>  **Bloody Fairy Tale** is the title of the short story Kato wrote about Shiro and Mephisto. It just happened to fit nicely with this chapter as well. (How many fairy tales have ended in blood because of Mephisto's meddling…?) The description of Mephisto's hands is inspired by the descriptions of him in that story. He's supposedly pale to the point of looking sickly, the kind where you can see the veins under his skin.
> 
>  _Demons strive to counteract human attachment to romanticised illusions such as love._ – Mephisto, ch 44  
>  I can't stop thinking about this sentence, evidently. I guess this chapter is my two pennies about the hows and whys of demons' relation to human attachment?


	89. Turf War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like Seymour in FFX, I simply refuse to die. (That said I'd be the most disappointing boss fight ever so please don't hurt me.) That's one of the things I'd like to say to all you new people who have found my stories: I will seem dead, many times, but I always return. The other things I want to say is "Hi!" and "Thanks for reading my fic!" =)
> 
> So, the manga took my absence as the opportunity to launch a rollercoaster ride across exactly the part of the story that's most influential on my fic. xD As expected, the revealing of Shiro's backstory has knocked TEotB right out of the canon solar system and into AU. Well. *cracks knuckles* I can roll with that. We have one hell of a ride ahead of us, and with a few spins and loops this will actually be, sort of, canon compatible. While being firmly secure in its newfound identity as an AU-fic.
> 
> / Dimwit
> 
>  **WARNING:** chapter contains LGBTQA+ slur and racist slur.

 "It's real simple! And it makes perfect sense!"

Whatever Larry claimed made perfect sense, Flavio was of a different opinion – a loud one. As so often happens, when two people are both convinced that they are right, winning the argument boils down to making sure your opponent gets no room to speak.

Every city has its personality – if you have grown up in one, you know. You know the unheard heartbeat that curls in the streets and fills the air, and somewhere in the tangle of blood vessel pipes and nerve cables it becomes a living thing: a host organism rather than a city, with its different quirks and moods. You might not be aware of it, but still. You feel it. And you notice it when it's not there.

Shiro had discarded bus and tram in favour of walking to and from Vatican City. It was slower, that went without saying, but you don't get the feeling of a city through a bus window. Every day he took a slightly different route, letting his feet pick up the pulse and breath of these unfamiliar city streets. In some ways Rome was similar to True Cross Town – of course, that's what the mind sees first. That's what it looks for. Identification. Connection.

Like True Cross, Rome wasn't too concerned about its appearance when it wasn't charming tourists with its central districts. Step off the beaten tracks and there were cricks and cracks tearing through the walls and feral vegetation sticking out its chin in defiance; there were streets that delighted in making you think they ran straight only to meander you lost, and shaggy mutts that kept attentive eyes on passers-by for food. There were cans and plastic wrappings and shattered glass – that was nothing you saw in Japan, unless you wandered lost to the places Shiro had come to know during his wilder years. There were cars and scooters that were equal parts metal and duct tape – exotic sights, truly – and a constant taste of dust about the air. The ancient ruins were everywhere – again, not something you saw a lot in True Cross. The Academy had borrowed shamelessly from Roman aesthetics, yes, but Rome itself was simply hopeless about it, like an old man in a bar who kept bringing up stories of his glory days whether people were interested in hearing it or not.

And then there were the people of Rome. Who were loud and flailing and chatted whether you were interested or not, like the two exorcists outside the bar that was their meet-up point. Again, not a bar bar: the café type of bar, complete with outdoor sets of chairs and minimal tables waiting for guests that wished to enjoy the Mediterranean summer to its fullest.

"Got your friend's back, I see." Shiro joined Gianpiero at the table, a comfortable viewing distance away from the argument. The bar was a small one, hidden away at an equally small plaza: chosen for that very reason, to avoid the tourist crowds and traffic jams of the area around the Vatican itself.

Gianpiero looked like he had woken up approximately five minutes ago, in the company of empty wine bottles and the ones who had helped empty them. He had expertise with that kind of situation, too, since he had somehow managed to find a clean shirt in those five minutes – yet buttoning it higher than mid-chest was something he just hadn't had time for. His exorcist robes hung messily on the chair, much like Gianpiero himself.

"His back, yes: his mouth, no." Egh. On second thought, Shiro turned his head and gave himself some comfortable distance from Gianpiero, too; that coffee cup in his hand gave off a smell so overpowering it stung his nose just being near it. "You don't drink coffee, do you?" he chuckled at Shiro's reaction and fished a carton out of his pocket. "Do you at least smoke?"

"Smoking is good." Shiro helped himself to a Marlboro. Didn't like them as much as he liked Japan's _Peace_ but whatever – when in Rome, do as the Romans do. "But keep the rat poison away from me."

"What's this blasphemy I hear? This is the Italian elixir of life – puts hair on your chest." Gianpiero took a sip and rapped his fist demonstratively against his chest.

That's what it was? It was impossible _not_ to notice the dark curls crawling about under his open shirt but that it was the _coffee_ that caused it…

"If miasma was liquid it would taste like coffee", he said through his first drag on the cigarette. "Nice show. What are they arguing about?"

Gianpiero glanced in the direction Shiro had nodded, pinning a cigarette of his own between his teeth and flicking a sullen lighter: sparks shot to life, died out, tried again to find breath…

Oh the mind seeks connections. And turns even the smallest things unto cruel reminders.

Shiro focused all his mind on his ears, on what Gianpiero was saying: on the little everyday nonsenses of the world.

"Larry had a theory that Italians worship the Madonna – you know the Madonna, right? Virgin Mary? Anyway, he said it's 'cause all Italians are mama's boys. And that there", he pointed with the cigarette once it had lit, "is one big mama's boy." Who was trying to convince Larry that he was not, from the bits and pieces of gatling gun discourse Shiro could catch.

"Uh-huh. And how's he holding up?"

"Flavio! Have you quit suckling on your mommy's tit yet?!" The retort was curt and probably very vulgar, judging from Gianpiero's pleased look. "He's swingin', alright", he reported.

"Swinging?" Doing the Italian windmill, yeah, but not really swinging in the fighting sense.

"Enjoying himself like a cat at a fish market – some people thrive on that sort of thing. He can start an argument just for fun and play the devil's advocate till he has satisfied his bickering needs. Then he curls up on the window sill and licks his paws." Gianpiero somehow kept the grip on his lighter, plucked the cigarette from his mouth, scratched his beard, downed a sip from the coffee cup in his other hand, and made it all seem like one effortless motion. "He'll check your pulse too, just wait and see." He put the smoke back, but restless fingers are restless, and kept toying with the lighter in a manner that made Shiro tempted to snatch it, just to see what he would do.

Maybe he would. Some time.

"Sucks for Flavio: I can't speak that fast. Or that fluent."

Not that that seemed to be a problem with Gianpiero.

"You know that might actually make it more fun? If you just answer every attempt at an argument with a single sentence or something so he can't get anything started. Or you could answer him in Korean! That would be a rage!"

"Dude, I'm from Japan, okay?"

"Japanese, Korean – people won't know the difference. Anyways, how did you end up in Italy?"

"Studies. There aren't many universities to choose from in Japan if you wanna be a priest."

"Priest? Oh you poor bastard, missing out on all the good things in life", he chuckled. "No but honestly, I respect your choice: that takes some serious dedication. I could never go commit to something like that. What's the religion in Japan?"

"Shinto." One look said Gianpiero had never heard of that. "It's how to live life right and live in harmony with the world."

"So basically the same commandments Catholicism has? Thou shalt not steal, thou shalt not kill, and so on?"

"No, there's no– Well yeah, that is part of living right, but there are no commandments or rules to follow. It's more like a… feeling?" Gianpiero did not look any wiser, and honestly, Shiro couldn't blame him. "Like you know in your heart what's right, what's true and what's good, so there's no need for lists of rules."

"That's… weird. So the Shinto god leaves it pretty much up to you what you think is the right way to live?"

Well no. Shinto had a concept of sin just like Catholicism did – if there is a right way of things there is also a wrong way – but it was different, and to explain that you'd need a more refined Italian vocabulary than Shiro disposed. Fortunately, another team mate came strolling over to save him.

"Hello!" Remo had that special gait tall people get when they have spent their formative years indoors, with books. That is an excellent way to obtain a sharp mind and glasses; to obtain good motor control, you should do strenuous things that get you sore and injured.

Oddly enough, people with sharp mind often show little interest in doing strenuous things that get you sore and injured.

"How are you?" Remo, too, had noticed Gianpiero's state of questionable soberness.

"You know, I always felt like we should be asking each other ' _what_ are you?' It's more specific. Like right now I'm a two-thirds empty bottle of Chianti colli: party has been on for a while and you feel you're starting to get a bit crunchy, but you've got that last third that'll get you through to the second phase of hype."

Remo laughed: an easy laugh, the kind that made you think he did that all day long with no effort. "That's something worth thinking about. What are you today, Alexander?"

He would have preferred if Remo had asked the regular version of the question. The verson that was so formalised it barely meant anything. When asked like this, the words were fresh and sharp and cut right through.

What was he today?

"I'm sleepy London town, where there's no place for a street fighting man." When you don't know what to say, anything might pop out. Including Rolling Stones' songs.

"That is good to hear, I suppose. Say, I wanted to ask you about the homework this evening. Battista's homework", he clarified when they didn't follow. "Flavio told me. It's Friday, and I thought it could be a pleasant way to end the week if we had dinner together. What do you think?"

"Early dinner", Gianpiero requested while balancing the lighter on his fingertip. "I have a dinner date and then a disco in Ostiense, so early dinner. We're probably gonna be hungry after the mission anyway."

"Sounds alright to me. Where do we eat?"

"Flavio recommended _Alfredo alla Scrofa_. He even offered to show us the way if we meet up at Castel Sant'Angelo."

They had a quite nice everyday discussion about what types of food they liked and what their mothers used to cook, and then Andrew arrived. You knew because the sound backdrop of two men arguing was cut short by the sound of one man preaching how unknightly it was to argue with one's brethren. He had even seized the both of them by the ear and–

"Who the shit grabs people by the ear?" No matter how Shiro might have looked as he gawked, his teammates looked dumber still. "They're not kids."

"Dude did you miss the argument just now? They're totally kids."

Kids about to get into a _real_ fight. Shiro had seen enough of those to rise from his chair before anyone else reacted. Larry did _not_ appreciate being grabbed like that: the tension in his posture was unmistakeable, unless you were Andrew Angel and had the awareness of an eggplant. Flavio was less dense, and was aiming his conversational skills at Andrew in an attempt to derail and defuse the situation, when the situation defused itself.

"Good morning, boys! All well with you?"

Bébé had had a good morning, and had decided that they would have a good morning as well. He crossed the small square in long, brisk strides that made his bald crown bobble up and down like a buoy. They greeted him in a comically disorderly fashion: Flavio acknowledged their teacher's presence with a casual wave, while Larry saluted like a soldier; Andrew did a smarmy, exaggerated bow that made Shiro itch to give him a kick in that perfectly exposed rear; Remo's bow was a modest one, and on the opposite end of modesty was Gianpiero, who limited his greeting to rising from his chair and kept tossing his lighter up and down. Shiro simply nodded; Bébé didn't seem to mind what kind of greeting he got either way.

"Looking lovely as lavenders! And perfect for today's mission. We have gotten an additional bit of info on the mission that might… well, the task might not be a walk in the park, as I had first thought, but nothing you can't handle – more of an inconvenience than anything. Doctor duty is driving duty, so–"

"I'll drive." Flavio only then realised he'd interrupted his superior, and flashed one of his easy smiles: "I know the town, G doesn't. I figure the best man should take the job, right?"

"What do you want to do, Sacchetti?" Bébé made a point of ignoring Flavio.

"Doesn't matter which seat he has, he'll still consider himself the driver. He can have the wheel."

"Okay then: Capponi drives the van to Fabliau. The location is marked on the map in the car. There is a flock of galatea there that have taken hold of the statues. This was about a month ago – they didn't cause much disturbance at first, other than spooking visitors by changing poses when they weren't looking. But now they have increased in number and gotten aggressive, and that's where things become inconvenient: you two", he pointed to Shiro and Remo, "will have to do all the work. Basically. We can't damage the statues or the Order will have to pay for new ones, and since that's money that should have paid our wages and equipment – you do the math. So. Do _not_ harm the statues, unless of course lives are on the line. Do you need me to repeat that, Sacchetti?"

"I got it, sir." He barely took his eyes from the lighter sailing up and down. "Let the Arias do the job, don't harm the statues."

"I will repeat it still: do not harm the statues. And protect your Arias. This is an easy mission if you work together, but for that same reason it might turn out a hard one when you're still new as a team."

* * *

"A walk in the park…"

Of course Bébé hadn't been able to resist.

Fabliau park was an anonymous little sliver of peace, a humble dove amongst peacocks, who wanted nothing to do with Rome's tourist hot-spots. It offered no particular historical significance, and, by declining any suggestion of brash decorations or adventurous landscaping, it had become a park that Romans could enjoy in private. It was a haven for families that required lawns and trees for lively children, and for elderly who sought shade and a good round of gossip – usually. When the park wasn't closed off with warning tape.

Though strictly speaking, you wouldn't have called it a park: to do so would have been a generous stretch of the concept, much like calling Samael's drawings art. Or, as Larry put it, the park resembled "Don Quixote, if the Don had been a pinup girl with a grudge against hedges instead of windmills".

The sight that greeted them was that of two nude stone women, who had been not-entirely-nude before they slung their sculpted drapings around a gnarly pine. They were pulling on them like mad dogs, trying to topple the tree; the soil beneath it bulged as the roots stubbornly held their ground.

" _He hexed me, I swear…_ " Shiro shook the stupid puns out of his head and focused on keeping the formation with his team. They were heading right, circling the statues in an effort to avoid combat before they had gotten an idea of the situation – not that the statues seemed eager for combat. Pulling down that tree was way more important to them than any armed, black robed men who'd come jumping out of a van, and the demons didn't spare them so much as a glance as they gathered behind a hedge that was miraculously still standing. Snapped branches and uprooted scrubs littered the ground – and the trees, and the battered metal frame that had presumably been a pavilion or greenhouse – but still didn't manage to conceal the muddy scars in the lawn.

The hedge they had chosen for hiding was one of two that formed a semi-circle around a patch of grass that hosted the remnants of a fountain and a… sludge pit with something that might have been flowers. There were sprays of flowers and dirt shooting up somewhere closer to the centre of the park, at least.

"So, what's the plan?" Larry, ranked Intermediate Second Class, carried an ArmaLite rifle like the ones Shiro had made visual love to in the HQ armoury: an AR-15, 99.1 cm of black, DGI-operating beauty. Larry's grip on it was tense, but comfortable in the knowledge that no matter what happened, he would respond quickly and efficiently.

With a muffled creak and a heavy thump, the tree roots finally lost hold of the soil and sent the pine to the ground with a burst of warbling, upset bird cries.

"Alright! Let's get this show on the road!" Flavio spun around and took a step back so he could speak to the team face to face. "So we have two Arias, one Knight, and three Dragoons: that makes two bodyguards for each of you", he said and shot Shiro and Remo a quick glance. "It's not that big a park, so I figure we can cover all of it pretty quickly with two teams – flank them from both sides and crush 'em in the middle." Flavio brought his hands together with a satisfying slap. He looked much too happy about this. "Battista doesn't seem to think we've got the hang of this job yet." Flavio's look went from happy to smug, the kind of look you'd imagine on the face of a Roman Emperor when asked if he thought he had enough troops to conquer another Greek island or if it might be too much for him. "I don't know about you, but I'm looking forward to making him change his mind. Alright?"

"Your mommy loves you, Flavio: you don't need to prove anything", Larry grinned sweetly.

"More than yours loves you, Americano", he responded with a glint in his smile that was just as amused. "You guys: how big is your effective range?"

"Dunno – five-six metres maybe? I usually move around a lot, with the Dragoon and Aria combo." Always Rear In Action? That only applied to people who cared about rules.

"I can reach up to ten metres with most demons." Remo softly touched the cross of the rosary he wore around his neck – not a conscious motion but something between a habit and an absentminded stress relief. "With lesser ones it can sometimes work as far as eleven."

"Alright, we've got ourselves a nuke!" Gianpiero hooted with a cascade of rapid finger snapping to unleash his excess energy. "I'm calling bodyguard for Remo!"

Ten metres? While Shiro wouldn't call that a nuke – Goggles-sensei had a range of at least 16 metres – it was pretty damn good for someone who was… what rank was Remo?

"Guys, how much is this in yards?"

"Yards?" Flavio shot Larry a look that was ready to pick up where they left off back at the bar. "What third world country are you from?"

"One that makes the uniform you're wearing and the gun you're carrying."

The argument from before was peeping out from the proverbial curtains, eager to leap back on stage, when the show was once again claimed by the prima donna.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen: please. Knights of the True Cross do not bicker amongst themselves. Ten metres is ten point nine yards, and five-six metres amounts to between five point five and six point six yards; my own country used the Imperial measurements until a decade ago."

They all pretended not to hear Andrew's sword squeal how smart he was.

"Well, there you have yourself an interpreter. You two go with Alex, then. If you head straight in that direction", Flavio pointed with a full hand in the direction they had come from, "past where we saw the statues and the tree, you'll get to the edge of the park. Past some trees there's a wooden lattice thing with roses, if I remember right. Start chanting when you get there and then move towards us; we'll be moving towards you from the pond at the other end. Alright?"

"Not towards towards, right?" Larry said. "Like we don't go on collision course and accidentally turn each other into lead pepperoni."

"That goes without saying", Flavio remarked with a hint of impatience. "G is the only Doctor on the team so if you get injured you might as well use the next bullet on yourself."

"Please don't: casualties are a lot more work to report than treated injuries", drawled the team's only Doctor – and sharpshooter, judging by the SSG 69 hanging on his back.

"Or better yet, don't get injured in the first place. It's an easy mission, guys. Our team sticks to the far side and yours hugs the entrance side: any other questions?"

Remo crossed himself with a soft murmur and wound his rosary snugly around his wrist. Shiro adjusted his glasses and flipped the safety on his P1; Gianpiero cocked back the hammer on the Model 59 Smith & Wesson he carried alongside his sniper rifle – twin younger brother of the Model 39 Flavio had in his holster. Larry touched one symbolic kiss on each shoulder – one for the devil, one for the angel – and readied his AR-15; Andrew unsheathed his swo–

Swift glances passed between the young exorcists, and a silent agreement was reached there and then that Andrew's sword could squeal as much as it liked so long as it never, ever _moaned_ again.

* * *

Shiro doubted they would find those rose trellises. He doubted there was anything even remotely like a landmark left to find. The park reminded him of photos he'd seen of natural disasters, as if a very localised hurricane had torn up everything in sight and transformed the landscape into its alcoholic twin. Trees, especially, were problematic when they were no longer vertical. The branches either broke from the fall, and became sharp as pole arms, or tangled with other branches and formed dense webs where a foothold would seem safe until the moment you put weight on it and made the entire structure shift.

Shiro wondered once again what exactly full-length robes were supposed to do for mobility. Yes, you could unbutton the skirts of the robe: that gave you a nice set of floppy fabric wings just waiting to snag on a branch. The debris and the upturned dirt made for an obstacle course where every step offered the opportunity of tripping or twisting an ankle – or getting your weapon caught in branches, if you were an arrogant nitwit Knight with a ridiculously dimensioned sword. The two Dragoons cringed whenever a snap or thud or "whoops!" marked their position to any demon within earshot, until Shiro's patience hit rock bottom after about five seconds.

"Fuck's sake, put that away unless you're going to cut us a path through this crap!"

"Show some respect, mongrel!"

"I wasn't talking to you."

"You were speaking ill words to _my Andrew_ – barbarian! I shall flay you head to toe!"

The sword did no such thing, as Andrew had enough sense to chastise it and actually put it back in its scabbard. Shiro was about to relish the silence and focus on the mission when it was interrupted by the _other_ chatterbox he had been paired with.

"So, Andy: is that your mom or your girlfriend?"

Andrew looked confused the way only Andrew could, until Larry threw a meaningful glance at the giant sword.

"Caliburn is an heirloom that has been passed down in the Angel family since the time of Arthur Pendragon, our noble ancestor, who was the first to subdue the demon that resides in it." Coincidentally also the first human to be born completely without ear for sarcasm. "It has been vanquished by each head of the family since, and has served us well."

"Arthur _Pendragon_?" It sounded like the most famous person Shiro had never heard of. "Are you shitting me? So that's– wait, _that's_ Excalibur…?" Larry went from awed to disappointed faster than Midori could down a serving of yakiniku.

"Oi, who's Arthur Pendragon…?"

"Most likely", Larry said, "he was a Welsh guy who had–"

"–a round table of Knights that–"

"–was found in a grave in Glastonbury–"

The rest of the way Shiro was treated to two different – simultaneous – accounts of who Arthur Pendragon was. In essence, he was a Welsh guy who had a round table in a grave in Glastonbury, where all the bravest knights in his kingdom convened, on an island of apples, because the Lady of the Lake had given it to him in an attempt to give the Britons a sense of historical unity and a smelly wizard.

* * *

The downside of having to watch your every step is that you have less time to watch your surroundings. Neither of them noticed the dökkálfr – a scarce metre high, three-headed thing that looked like harebells – until they were basically stepping on its wiry roots. Then everything happened very fast, as things do when there is more reflex than reflection involved: Larry fired, and Shiro fired, but even as the demon shrieked and dissolved in miasma it had time to spit globs of fluid from the cone-shaped flowers.

"Are you hurt?!" Andrew, who had walked a few steps behind instead of being in any way useful, had escaped without a single speck on him.

"Fucking _great_ …!" The same was not true for his two human shields.

Shiro fumbled for some slip of his robes that hadn't gotten soaked. The goo – nectar? – didn't appear harmful per se: that didn't mean it couldn't be harmful indirectly. Larry had turned away in the nick of time and only got hit in the back and head; Shiro was less lucky and had slim hopes of wiping his gun before the sticky nectar seeped into it. Unless it had already gotten in through the muzzle.

"We're fine. I just might need to rock the Bébé-look for a while – this thing's like _glue_ …" Larry had touched the back of his head and brought his hand down with a grimace, along with tufts of brown hair stuck to his fingers. "Mother _fucker_ …! Alex, drop the gun!"

Oh Shiro was trying to let go of the gun. In an aggressively hand-waving way. It almost looked like he was speaking Italian.

"It's not coming off." Unless he was prepared to sacrifice the top layer of skin on his palm, which did not seem like a particularly good idea in the midst of a mission. After a moment's consideration he fired one bullet into the dirt, hoping the blast would clear any nectar from the muzzle. "Wasn't planning on putting it away till the mission was done anyway." Just had to remember to keep his left hand un-gooed and he'd be fine. "Let's get moving. We can't be far from the roses. Whoa, what?!"

Larry had dropped his rifle and let it hang freely from the strap around his back and neck; with his hands he had gathered up a load of dirt and dumped it over Shiro's gun hand.

"Better than gluing yourself to your uniform by accident", he explained once weapon and hand were covered in a fine coating of brown.

"No, this will only make it worse to get off", Shiro argued, attempting to brush the dirt off without gluing his left hand stuck. "You should spit on it."

"Spit?" Andrew frowned in disgust.

"Yes, spit. Use your… kōso."

"Is that code for my inner kung fu spirit…? Like not spit but spirit?" Larry suggested.

"No! It's that substance in your saliva." How did you explain your way around a word like _enzyme_? "The reason you should not lick a spoon and then dip it in honey." Moriyama had told him so. Moriyama had told him so very much when he just wanted a taste and then messed up a whole jar of manuka honey from her storage.  
"Saliva destroys it."

"Have it your way, Al", the broad American shrugged. "I'm gonna stick with grit till I can get a nice, hot shower."

They continued their quest for the edge of the park, past a cypress hedge bowing brokenly into their path and revealing some form of tool shed behind it. No roses anywhere in sight. What they did come across was a scatter of stone fragments that suggested the Order might have to pay compensation for at least one statue.

"Oh no…" Andrew sounded, for lack of better word, heartbroken; Shiro was half expecting him to fall to his knees, cradle a shard in his hands, and toss his head back to howl _WHY?!_ at the indifferent heavens.

"Yeah I hope they don't charge us for that. On the upside, one less statue to exorcise – and that there looks like the edge of the park", Larry nodded up ahead at a wall of forbidding grey mortar, "so how about we get started? If your range is five-six yards, should we make like a zigzag pattern back to the others?"

"Zigzag?"

"Like this." Larry sketched the motion with a finger.

"No. They'll come for me when I start chanting. If we stay on course we'll get most of them. We should avoid this", he waved at the tangle of fallen trees, "as much as possible if we're gonna get into a fi–"

Oh come now. Getting into fights is not an _if_ , it's an exorcist's _job._ To correct that slip of the tongue, a wrought iron bench came crashing down bare metres from where they were standing. Andrew drew his sword; Larry and Shiro pointed their weapons in the direction the projectile had come from.

"Looks like they're not gonna wait for your invitation, Alex."

One of the toppled trees wasn't a tree at all. It was an ent, a stubby carob tree that must have been lying down when they passed by. It mingled well with its surroundings, much of is branches having been broken off with tremendous force that left sharp, pale splinters sticking out of the rough hide. It was still retracting its arm from the throw when a swarm of Larry's bullets bit into it with heavy, muted thuds. It had neither face nor mouth – ents have no use for that sort of thing – but even so a low, wrathful hum reverberated from deep within the wood.

The good thing with ents was that they were slow; the bad thing was that they were strong as hell, and you needed at least a rocket launcher to do serious damage to one. And, elemental spirits had no fatal verses.

"Anyone got 9 mm djinn blessed bullets on them?"

"No blessed bullets at all." Larry was already falling back, step by cautious step. His eyes darted from the ent to the ground behind – and caught a glimpse of something else behind them. "If there's gasoline in the tool shed we could use that! I don't know how we're gonna snuff this guy otherwise!"

That was a pretty good idea.

"Make way, comrades!"

What was not a good idea was rushing straight at the ent.

Andrew ran headlong into the tangle, sword brandished and surrounded by a golden glow, and Larry hauled ass to stop him. Shiro himself was rooted to the spot – physically. His mind was racing at top speed, muted in a bubble of déjà vu that he couldn't comprehend until he remembered that time, long ago, when his class had taken their Esquire exam in the blizzard.

The world came back sharp with adrenaline and danger. Shiro sprinted left, peppering the ent with bullets as he did. He wasn't going to get himself killed over stupid teammates this time around either, but he would at least make an effort to save them. If he could just distract the ent, maybe Larry could–

Larry wasn't even close to catching up when Andrew tripped. The blonde idiot had almost reached the ent when he abruptly vanished out of view after misjudging a jump over a fallen tree; a rumbling howl rose from the ent, which seemed to have been cut in the foot by Caliburn judging by how the demon tree was–

"Oh fuck no…!"

–falling right on top of Andrew.

Shiro flew over the scattered trunks and bushes. He didn't care if Larry saw him leap like no human could, all that mattered was getting to Andrew and getting that tree off him before it was too late, if it wasn't too late already oh god that _idiot_ …!

A blinding flash of light pierced Shiro's retina. He skidded to a halt straight into a squat palm tree, one arm thrown up to shield his watering eyes: a few metres away, Larry had done the same. Blinking and squinting, they gawked as their blonde idiot stood up and fussed about all the mud on his robes. The son of a bitch had had the devil's luck when he fell. The ent would have collapsed right on top of him, but the trunk that had tripped the Knight had also caught the demon's fall and saved him from being squashed.

"You fucking idiot! You could'a died! And what the hell was _that_?!"

On either side of Andrew, the remains of the ent oozed a slow trickle of miasma into the air. It didn't seem to have been cleaved in half so much as the middle portion of it had vaporised: when Shiro touched them, the cut surfaces were smooth as glass.

"This is Caliburn's true nature." If Andrew was about to start on another Epic Saga of His Family History, as his tone suggested, Shiro would test out how well his Epic Marksmanship worked with iron benches and a moving target. "In the hands of the righteous and just, it becomes the light that pierces the darkness."

Caliburn's exorbitant declarations of undying loyalty might absolutely be able to pierce darkness, and every ear within hearing range. The contrast was bizarre. Both of them, bizarre – in their own way, as if they couldn't really see or hear each other and carried out two separate conversations.

"So what you've got is a sword that shoots motherfucking laser beams." Larry had found a whole new motivation for Knight class. "You can keep your kung fu spirit, I just discovered my calling in life."

* * *

Things went rather smoothly after that – relatively speaking. Shiro's chanting attracted hordes of earth elementals as they moved towards the rest of the team, which wasn't that much of a problem between two guns and one sword; the problem was that they were there to exorcise statues, not weed the flowerbeds.

The universe operates according to a gleeful kind of ketchup effect where you either get none of what you want, or too much of it. Sometimes you even get both, if the universe is feeling particularly keen on torturing the undeserving.

They heard it before they saw it: big, heavy things have that effect on vegetation. The crunching of branches reached them from behind as something forced its way through the pick-up sticks they had navigated around. There's nothing quite like that moment. Any and every dreadful thing imagination can conjure springs to life in those few – long – seconds, no matter how many missions you have beneath your belt.

Larry kissed his angel tattoo once more.  
_  
Dreadful_ has a surprisingly broad definition. A winged unicorn is not a particularly scary sight, unless it's charging you like an 800 kg marble mini tank – and especially when it doesn't behave as it should. The plan was to keep demons away from Shiro yet in range while he chanted his verses to completion; this would be accomplished by Andrew and Larry throwing holy water grenades – damaging the demon but not the statue – to force its attention elsewhere.

The unicorn could not have cared less about their plans, and its attention was already elsewhere: on Andrew.

It tried to skewer him, but he threw himself out of the way; it tried to stomp on him while he was on the ground, but he rolled away last minute; it dripped and steamed of holy water but didn't give a damn about neither Shiro nor Larry – nor the demon sword calling it a barbarian and a brute.

"How long _is_ the Book of Samuel?!" As if Shiro could answer that while chanting. He measured a wide arc between his hands: there were two Books of Samuel. "Well screw that!" Larry grabbed his rifle and–

"Don't harm the statue!" Andrew yelled as he narrowly escaped having his skull crushed by a wing.

"No offense Andy but your priorities suck ass!" Larry trained the muzzle at the unicorn and was about to squeeze the trigger when Andrew blocked his aim.

"We have orders", he panted, "not to harm the statues!" To which Shiro would have said _fuck that_ if he hadn't been rattling off Bible verses. Thankfully, Larry did it for him. "I will take care of this one! You clear the rest, please!"

Andrew stopped dodging and started running: just like before, the unicorn didn't care about anything but him. Before long, the sound of breaking twigs and Caliburn's insults faded into the distance.

"Clear the rest _please_?" Larry glanced at Shiro with scepticism. Shiro agreed, but couldn't answer – then he remembered Bébé's lesson in gestures, and tapped his temple with an index finger. Larry chuckled. "Yeah he is a funny guy. A man should have principles but he should not be slave under them, you know? You gotta use your head – especially in this line of work." Larry spat on the ground. "Let's get some gardening done."

The relative smoothness became more and more relative, until their situation was only smooth when compared to swimming upstream with a fridge tied around your neck. There were earth elementals sprouting like goddamn dandelions everywhere: literally under their feet, snaring their boots, climbing up their legs…

Fuck this. With a bang, Shiro detonated a holy water grenade right where they stood and dispersed the elementals in a mess of chatters: there. Some temporary respite. They had to find the others and regroup, they were achieving absolutely nothing like this. He waved at Larry to follow him, not wanting to cease chanting in case he against all odds managed to exorcise at least something. They were almost back to the midline of the park, the sludge pit and the hedge were in sight and the promising sound of gunfire wasn't far away.

Larry, however, hadn't moved an inch. Shiro waved at him again; Larry was shaking his head violently, a steady stream of _no_ flowing from his lips. Shiro waved a third time, fiercely: this time Larry started hesitantly moving – backwards.

"Oh fuck's sake _come over here_!" Shiro snarled, shot another greenman and changed his empty magazine with an impatient slam. "We gotta find the others and regroup!"

"Why the hell were you waving me away then?" The paralysis finally broke, and Larry ran over.

"I was telling you to follow!"

"Don't lie straight to my face, you hear?" It was the first time Shiro saw blue eyes like this. Up close. Pupils chipped away by adrenaline till they were nothing but sharp, black bullet holes boring through him as easily as if he'd been just another demon. "I know what I saw, so don't you fucking lie to me you fucking Jap."

Larry's rifle wasn't aimed at the ground. Larry's rifle was angled up, at him, ready to fire before Shiro had a chance to raise his own gun.

Some people can be reasoned with, if you keep calm in face of their aggression; others are like mad dogs, and back down only before dogs madder than themselves. Fine. Shiro could play the daredevil game.

If that had been what this was about.

Larry was not on edge because of the mission or the argument earlier that morning. Larry was on edge because that was what itched inside of him, edges and thorns and a devil on his shoulder, always on the verge of piercing the surface; Shiro could feel it. Wicked static coursing his skin, his blood, jolting that itch inside _his_ brain that was all about the rush and none about the consequences. That itch that made him climb house façades and strike deals with demons. That itch that made him push and push until someone fell off the edge.

Larry wouldn't need much pushing…

…because Larry wanted to be pushed. To have an excuse to drop off that edge.

Shiro met his bullet-hole gaze steadily, seized the seconds between them and held them tightly in his lungs, willing them to last long enough for him to become lord over his impulses. There would be no one falling today.

"This", Shiro repeated the waving motion he had made three times, "means 'follow me' in Japan."

It might not work. There was a pressure building inside the American that seemed to have nothing to do with what Shiro said or did. Long seconds passed during which Shiro had to remind himself to breathe, and then, finally…

"That's how you shoo away a dog." Larry fired a carpet of rounds at the ground to his left, where more greenmen had sprung up during the explosive silence. "Let's go find the others."

They didn't speak any more after that. Conversation isn't an easy thing in the first place, with gunfire blasting, but Larry had cloaked himself in a thorny silence Shiro didn't know how to break – not with the previous conversation in mind. He kept a step or two behind the broad American, just in case.

* * *

The others had found the rose trellis. It had been two and a half metres tall and had forced them to jump in the pond to escape swarms of launched prickles; luckily, exorcist robes are thick, and reinforced with hemp fibre for additional protection. Needless to say, wearing wet ones was like walking around in a concrete onesie.

"We exorcised two faun statues and one of the nude women", Flavio reported, still trying to get his hair to look like he hadn't gone for a swim in a duck pond. "And about five million earth demons. Your count?"

"Like Arizona Cardinals' Super Bowl wins: zero. Plus five million weeds", Larry responded. No trace of the mad dog from earlier: only dissonance, as with Andrew and his demon sword. "Though we did come across–"

"Where is Angel?" Remo interjected urgently.

"Was just getting to that: there was this unicorn statue that didn't care squat about Alex's chanting. All it had eyes for was Andy, who's–"

"Despicable scoundrel!" The heavy thump of hooves was all the warning they got, before a lung-busting Andrew skidded around the thorny mess of the former rose trellis. He had gained a fine camouflage coating of mud and leaves: in his precious hair, too.

The unicorn cleared the trellis in one leap, wings flaring out for support; head lowered, it would have skewered Andrew like a fish if he hadn't just then tripped over his– Oh god the guy actually tripped over his own sword sheath… Lethal hooves thundered past, miraculously missing the curled-up human and the sword howling 'barbarian!' like some demented squirrel. Once again they raised their guns, and once again Andrew shouted at them not to harm the statue.

" _Fuck the statue._ " Shiro watched the unicorn brake sharply, tail whipping about and haunches almost sitting in the dirt. He did not lower his gun. " _And fuck you._ "  
  
Snotty upper-class brats like Andrew would never be proper exorcists. Not because they couldn't fight – Andrew probably had more raw combat power than any of them – but because they didn't know the real world. They lived in their fancy, sugar powdered realities where anything was attainable and everything was exactly as it said on the tin, where orders were to be followed because they came from superiors who were always right and never had any hidden agendas.

Fuck orders. What kept you alive at the end of the day was your own damn wits. Shiro was about to pull the trigger on the statue when a hand smacked his arm down; Flavio told him with one glance that no one would shoot unless he said so.

"So it's true that unicorns only go for virgins."

They all stared at Gianpiero, who just grinned. Grinned and watched the unicorn chase its virgin maiden across the torn-up lawns.

"No wonder it turned as soon as it saw you", Flavio jibed, continuing to harpoon the serious atmosphere out of the air. "You're unicorn kryptonite, G."

"I don't need a unicorn: I am the unicorn." He grinned even wider and hefted his sniper rifle very… suggestively.

"That's what happens when you down that final third of Chianti", Shiro snorted with a grin; "you transform into a unicorn."

What kept you alive was your wits, but what kept you sane was your ability to joke despite the dangers of the job. The world may be shit, but if you can squeeze even a single drop of humour out of it then you can bear it. So they did. And they laughed. And maybe they felt a little more like a team, despite their first mission going crap.

* * *

"We need some kind of cover if we're gonna pull this off." Shiro had tried to take inventory of how many magazines he had left in his belt pouches, with only his non-dominant hand free. That, too, had helped the good mood of the group. "Like putting up a barrier to create a safe zone. Let them come to us instead." Because frankly, neither of the Dragoons had much ammunition left after the hordes of earth spirits.

"That won't be easy, I fear." Shiro somehow kept forgetting that Remo was there. If Gianpiero had the social presence of a full circus crew with orchestra, Remo had the presence of a doormat: one could assume it was there, because it usually was, but you wouldn't really notice it or be able to describe what it looked like. "The bridge across the pond is the only solid surface where we could draw a barrier, and it simply isn't big enough for all of us."

"Guys, I think I saw something we can use. Back when we still had Andy. We passed by this pool thing that had a retaining wall of stone. It looked pretty intact."

"We did?"

"Yeah, it was on our right side when we went there, on our left side when we backtracked."

"It's the fountain the unicorn belongs in", Flavio enlightened. "How far from here are we talking, if we avoid the fallen trees?"

"We'd have to come in at a bit of an angle, say…" Larry extended his arm at the other end of the park; "maybe 300 yards."

"…Did you have to lose the one guy who could translate between metres and yards?" Flavio raised a hand at them in a way that made him resemble a waiter carrying a tray of glasses.

"Sorry: I'll make sure to lose Larry next time. Or he could just learn the metric system."

They formed a protective square of Dragoons around an apologetic Remo, with Larry at the front to guide them. And to complain about the metric system, which used arbitrary lengths with no basis in reality, and that made Imperial the superior system: you didn't need to carry around a measuring tape as long as you had thumbs and feet. Perfectly logical.

"You're saying metres is arbitrary but how arbitrary isn't it to use feet for measurement when everyone's feet are different sizes?" Flavio argued – like a cat at a fish market indeed.

"There's a standard foot, obviously. Your own foot is just for approximation."

"So you have a mummified standard foot in Fort Knox and we have a standard metre bar in Paris: not much difference."

"Mummified standard foot!" Larry laughed. "Yeah yeah; right next to the mummified standard thumb."

"And I can still use my own feet to measure an approximate metre, so I don't see your point", Flavio continued.

"My point is you should base your system on something real, something that's readily available and that everybody can relate to. Feet and inches are real measurements that people have been using since time immemorial – what's meter? Some fantasy unit scientists made up during coffee break: it's got nothing to do with regular people and what was convenient to regular people."

"Should we base our measurement units on the hammer or the sickle, Comrade Brooks?" Gianpiero cajoled from the rear guard.

"In Japan we measure area based on the standard size of a straw mat."

"Dude what was that you were saying about third world countries?" Larry tossed a grin at Flavio. " _That_ is a fucking third world country measurement."

"But can't you make straw mats any size you want? How do you know you've made it exactly standard measured?"

Parallel to the rapid fire against demons evolved a rapid-fire discussion of what, exactly, constituted a good measurement standard from a global perspective. Tatami mats weren't any good. Neither was the beater of a weaving loom, or the crossbar of a football goal.

"Okay but bikes, how about that?" Larry asked and turned his head, only to spot something behind them. "Demon three bikes away, five o'clock!"

"Three demon bikes with five o'clock shave?" Gianpiero shouted after disposing of the demon.

"Five shaved demons on a bike?" Flavio returned.

"Five baked demons shaving a clock!" Oh god…

In the distance, Andrew and the unicorn sped past and were gone.

"And one breathless Knight chased by a barbarian unicorn", Flavio commented.

"One breathless night with Barbara the unicorn."

"I'm pretty sure that's a male unicorn", Larry observed.

"I'm pretty sure Caliburn is male, too." Gianpiero went on to make a disturbingly accurate imitation of Caliburn moaning for Andrew to 'grab its hilt'.

"He's a fag demon magnet..." Larry crumpled up in snickers, hand over his eyes to shield him from his mental images. "Alright, guys, how about we save him from Barbara?"

"The other statues first", Shiro responded over his shoulder as he slammed one of his remaining three magazines into the gun. "We have to save all ammo we can."

The fountain had arcs of water still spouting around a gathering of stones that Barbara must have stood on. They began clearing the perimeter, kicking aside branches and debris, before Flavio even had the order out of his mouth. It was the Arias' task to chalk the stone wall with barrier symbols, or would have been if Shiro's right hand hadn't been glued stuck to his gun – but perhaps that was a good thing, because Remo didn't draw the barrier as Shiro would have.

"You use these glyphs together?" he pointed at a section where Remo had drawn two figures – alchemical, in the classification of warding symbols – that Futotsuki-sensei had said to never use in combination.

"I do." Remo halted his motions and looked up at Shiro from his squatting position. "Is there something wrong?"

"I've just been taught that you don't use those two in the same inscription. But if it works, it works."

"Who knows… I'm not surprised that different regions have different traditions." He resumed drawing the warding glyphs swift yet graceful movements. "Did your teacher say why you're not supposed to combine them?"

No, he hadn't. And when they all stood inside and the chanting commenced, the barrier held just fine. The elementals didn't get through, and neither did the two agitated faun statues or the remaining nude woman. All in all, Shiro felt this was another case of learning-one-thing-only-to-discover-that-reality-works-differently, like when Goggles-sensei had taught them that there were no shortcuts to Aria verses.

Keeping time with Remo's chanting was… not difficult, not really, but – different. Shiro recited his verses, like all other Arias he'd worked with in Japan; Remo chanted. In the true sense of the word. The verses poured out of him as a melody, rising and falling, pitch-perfect and strangely… tranquil: hypnotic, almost, in its simplicity, as it gently but relentlessly wove deeper into the labyrinths of the ear. He counted the verses on his rosary as he sang, counted with long fingers that knew every curve and chip in the wooden beads. His eyes remained closed the entire time.

* * *

The remaining statues were neatly gathered around the fountain, exorcised and marked with chalk symbols to prevent demons from possessing them again. They rationed the ammunition amongst themselves and left the safety of the barrier for their last task: save Andrew. …which was a big anti-climax. Finding him was easy: you just followed the heated monologue of Caliburn shouting abuse. Exorcising Barbara was also easy: Andrew had climbed up in a tree and clung to the branches for dear life while the unicorn repeatedly braced itself on its forelegs and kicked at the trunk. All Shiro and Remo had to do was stand and chant.

"Good job keeping the unicorn away from us!" When the Knight was finally back on the ground, Flavio patted him in the back with a big, warm smile. "Couldn't have done it without your distraction manoeuvre, what with all those earth demons coming out of nowhere."

"Yeah they could've briefed us about that", Shiro huffed, trying to rub spit on his gun and fingers without looking like a nutcase. "I would've bringed more ammo, for one thing."

"Brought more ammo", Larry corrected.

"We can't lay blame on our superiors. There was no way they could know the galatea and the earth demons were fighting over this territory."

"They were fighting each other…" Remo murmured. They were all having the same revelation: the upturned flowerbeds, the smashed statues, the torn-down trees. They had walked straight into a demon civil war.

"How did _you_ know?" Gianpiero wasn't upset: he was a two-thirds empty bottle of Chianti that was now completely empty, because some moocher had spotted it and thought it was a shame to let good liquor go to waste.

"My companion told me", he responded and patted Caliburn's hilt.

"And you didn't tell _us_?" Larry fumed, because the next collective revelation was that if they had just let the demons exterminate each other, this mission really _would_ have been a walk in the park. "We could've just sat back and let them pummel each other!" Instead, they had given the demons a common enemy to unite against.

Andrew frowned. Not deeply but stiffly, the way a face freezes when you pause a video halfway through a grimace.

"We are Knights of the True Cross, Lawrence. We are the sword and shield of the Lord, and what we do, we do in His name."

"Dude not even _my_ _ma_ calls me Lawrence!"

"If we do not raise that shield and sword against evil", Andrew continued unperturbed, "but watch idly as evil turns on itself, have we fulfilled the duty the Lord gave us? Have we carried out His work, as honourable men – as Knights?" He might only have been a couple of centimetres taller than Larry, but he seemed to be looking down on him from the top of Tokyo Tower. "Or are we cowards masquerading as servants of the Lord?"

"Kyaaa Andrew speaks like a true king~!"

If someone in that moment had asked Larry 'what are you today?', the appropriate response would have been that he was a dragon about to burp in an oil tanker. His face flushed an angry red and the muscles in his neck stood out like ropes: it made it all the more startling when he opened his mouth and sounded perfectly calm.

"You're absolutely right, Andy. Absolutely. Getting the job done efficiently isn't what matters, it's getting it done _with honour_ – oh _silly me_ , how did I _not_ understand that?" Perfectly calm except for the toxic sarcasm.

"Understanding takes time, my friend." Andrew laid his hand on Larry's shoulder in a display of encouragement. "But don't worry. You will get there." He squeezed his shoulder with a solemn smile. "You will get there."

You could hear the gears turning as Larry struggled to decide whether Andrew was a world-class actor or a world-class idiot.

"Well spoken." Flavio sided with Andrew…? Nah that had to be his argumentative streak. "If not for honour and faith we'd be nothing but pest exterminators – I can only speak for myself but I like the title Knight of the True Cross a lot better. Brothers in arms." Flavio attempted to sling his arms around the shoulders of the two, realised he was a decimetre too short for that kind of comradely gesture, and ended up awkwardly grasping their upper arms. "There's no bond more honourable than that. We are each other's hands and feet, we tell each other what we do and what we learn about the situation: we keep each other alive." He looked steadily from one to the other. "Can we honour that bond from here on out? Andrew?"

"Your words stir my heart, Flavio. From here on out I–" As Andrew was about to bring his hand to his heart, he noticed he was stuck on Larry's shoulder.

"That would be demon nectar. Bonding shower for you and me, amigo." He patted Andrew on the shoulder. "Let's get back and have that dinner."

* * *

Shiro entered the apartment more dirt than human, after a profoundly awkward bus ride where he had tried to hide the gun by shoving both hands into his pockets and leaning against the wall. Combined with the combat boots and the long, black robes full of dirt, he had probably looked like a hitman fleeing the scene of the crime.

Old habits die hard, and just like in Japan there was a naturally formed laundry pile by the foot of Shiro's bed. He walked right past it, into the bathroom, and dumped the muddy uniform into the bathtub piece by piece. Lastly, he slid the magazine out of the gun and put it on the sink, then dumped himself in the tub.

Mud, sweat, and nectar melted off him in the stream of hot water. The blunders and misunderstandings of the day followed suit, trickling out of sore limbs and evaporating with the steam. Weird-ass teammates. Weird-ass people were the only ones who'd get the idea to become exorcists in the first place.

He put the gun next to the magazine once it finally came off. Washed his body, washed his hair, wrung the water out of his clothes and hung them over the tub edge. Shiro preferred to air dry, when temperatures allowed it. It was a luxury he hadn't had often during his years in a dormitory, or at the orphanage, but now that he lived alone he would enjoy his clothing free time as much as he damn well pleased.

Shiro spread a towel on the burnt orange carpeting of his room and sat down on it with his gun and his cleaning kit. Guns preferred to air dry, too. Dissembling a gun was akin to meditation: the meticulous, orderly deconstruction of things, down to their most basic parts. Parts... It's a strange concept: parts. That an object is not an object in itself but a part, useless on its own and only gaining function – purpose, worth – when put together with other parts. Whether the construction as a whole worked or jammed depended on how well those parts fit and moved together.

Shiro wiped clean every pin and groove of his P1, treated the parts with lubricant, and got himself ready for dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always kind of wondered if different types of demons ever cooperate. Or if they're rivals? Or both…? And on the off chance that some of you know about **Barbara the Unicorn** , this is my tribute to the joke.
> 
>  **Puts hair on your chest** – if there's one thing in languages that has potential for misunderstandings, it's all these idioms, set expressions, and figures of speech. =P
> 
>  **Chianti colli Fiorentini** is the type of Chianti wine grown just outside Florence, while the "true" Chianti is grown some 30 km (173 bikes) to the southwest of the city.
> 
>  **Alfredo alla Scrofa** is an old restaurant in Rome, and the place where fettuccine alfredo was invented.
> 
>  **ArmaLite AR-15** is a quite vicious-looking thing that uses a special operating mechanism called DGI: direct gas impingement. The theory of gas impingement itself is simple: when a bullet is fired, there is an expelling of gas that is collected via a gas port in the barrel. The pressure of this gas is then used to operate the mechanism that reloads the firearm (unlocks the mechanism, extracts and ejects the spent case, cocking the hammer, loading a fresh cartridge into the chamber, and locking the mechanism back in place). In regular gas impingement, the gas accomplishes this through pushing at a piston and operating rod that triggers the actual reloading mechanism: in a direct gas impingement mechanism, there is no piston or rod. The gas itself goes directly to act on the reloading mechanism. (Shiro is a nerd.)
> 
>  **SSG 69** is a very expensive but also very accurate Austrian sniper rifle.
> 
>  **Smith & Wesson Models 39 and 59:** remember the footnote where I mentioned the Walther P38/P1 was a great inspiration for later gun models? These are two of those later models.
> 
>  **Hemp fibre** was used in WWI to reinforce soft body armour and slow down projectiles.
> 
>  **Dökkálfr** – that plant demon thing that takes Shiemi hostage way back in the manga.
> 
>  **Saliva in honey** \- no. Bad idea. You have carbohydrate cleaving enzymes. But manuka honey is pretty cool: it's what you get when bees gather nectar from the manuka plant endemic to New Zealand and Australia. It's a natural antibacterial that might be used in hospitals someday.
> 
>  **Technically,** if you can measure in mats or feet you could just as well measure in bikes.


End file.
